


A Heart Beats At Night

by magicalyoyo



Series: A Heart Beats At Night [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Friends to almost-lovers to enemies to friends to lovers, Hurt/Comfort, LLF Comment Project, M/M, Skating, Slow Burn, Supernatural - Freeform, Temporary Character Death, Vampires, Werewolf!Otabek, domestic vampire au, graphic depictions of violence and injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-17 20:30:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 42
Words: 153,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9342170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicalyoyo/pseuds/magicalyoyo
Summary: A lone figure ran along the sidewalk. Otabek would have mistaken him for a motivated jogger, if not for the sinewy, fluid movements and familiar figure. He jerked his bike over, skidding to a halt in front of the runner.Otabek’s heart was pounding a sickening, dizzying rhythm, but he schooled his face into stoicism as he pulled his helmet off to get a better look.“Yuri Plisetsky died two years ago,” he growled. “What the hell are you?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [imaginary_dragonling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginary_dragonling/pseuds/imaginary_dragonling) created a [concept cover](https://imaginarydragonling.tumblr.com/post/166275877149/for-iguanastevens-wonderful-fic-a-heart-beats) for this fic! <3
> 
>  
> 
> [Playlist for this story.](https://open.spotify.com/user/rrcopley12/playlist/0PfAIf1AsdjikQSqh4xepB?si=15oMBVlBRwixOE_N6OngwA)

The library was Viktor Nikiforov’s pride and joy; richly stained oak bookshelves swept from richly carpeted floors to the delicately domed ceiling. The books they cradled ranged from paperbacks scavenged from library sales neatly stacked on the lower shelves to ornately bound relics, carefully sequestered behind panels of glass, but all showed evidence of loving care. Not a speck of dust rested on their pages, nor on the engraved bronze plaques labeling each shelf.

The room had no windows, a fact that greatly pleased the bookbinder who came by twice yearly to maintain the oldest and most fragile volumes.

 _Sunlight damages these beauties,_ the woman said, gently tracing the gilded cover of the volume she was inspecting. _You are good to protect them like this._

Viktor had agreed with her, but he didn’t explain that the room predated its treasures. He had originally chosen it as his study, a sanctuary for those days in which the idea of rest felt a bit too close to a final death, leaving him to work, blurry-eyed, until noon, imagining the rays of sunshine just a few meters away.

But that had been long ago, when he was young, and now the library belonged to the books. Today, he was merely a caretaker, a guest, permitted to luxuriate in its tranquility, free from –

“Yu _ri!”_ he moaned. A laptop was perched on the polished desk, surrounded by scattered notebooks and pens. An empty mug - no coaster - sat next to it, precariously close to the edge. Several dark spots stained the plush ivory carpet.

 

* * *

 

Yuuri Katsuki dragged himself through the airport, trying to keep track of Phichit through the dense fog of exhaustion. Unfamiliar words seeped into his mind, snippets of conversation from other travelers, colorful ads plastered against the speckled grey walls, and the carefully posted signs. He peered at one, trying to make out the smaller letters beneath, but after thirty hours of flying, layovers, taxis, and airplane coffee, he could barely process even rudimentary English. _Gepäckausgabe / Luggage Claim…_

            “Smile!” Phichit grabbed Yuuri’s shoulders and pulled him in for a selfie. The resulting photo, showcasing Phichit’s cheerful grin and Yuuri’s lopsided grimace, was immediately uploaded to his various accounts.

 

“Made it to #Berlin! Who’s ready to start some research?”

 

* * *

  

“I was gonna clean it up later. Don’t give yourself a heart attack, old man,” growled Yuri, halfheartedly scrubbing at the bloodstained carpet.

“No, you were going to move the table on top of the stains and hope I didn’t notice.”

Yuri swiped his blond hair out of his eyes and huffed a curse that Viktor graciously pretended not to notice. Viktor was dismayed to note that the foam was merely spreading the pink stain across the floor. He sighed.

“It’s fine, I’ll call a cleaner in the morning. Just make sure you tidy up before they get here.”

Yuri was halfway out the door into the hallway before Viktor finished speaking, leaving only a muffled, “What kind of _idiot_ gets white carpet, anyway?” hanging in the air behind him.

“I wasn’t _planning_ for anyone to be eating in the library, Yurochka,” he murmured, knowing that the teenager could still hear him.

A door slammed several floors above him, almost – but not quite – drowning out the mumbled, “Sorry.”

 

* * *

 

“Yuuri, are you _sure_ this is the best research strategy? We have our permits. We could just go ask the police.”

Yuuri pushed his glasses back up from the tip of his nose and sighed, “No. I’m not sure, but no one will ever talk to us if we go through the police.”

Phichit laughed. “You have a point. So, your contact said to try around Kreuzberg?”

They bent over the map. Notes and circles dotted the creased paper. Yuuri pointed to one location, marked with a star, and several scribbled addresses.

“Most people will probably speak at least some English, but it’s probably better if you let me translate anyway. The main languages in this area are going to be German and Turkish, so if we split up, do you remember what to say?”

Yuuri was always amazed at how Phichit’s cheerful, easygoing demeanor shifted seamlessly into a businesslike calm. Out of all the translators he could have worked with (not very many, to be honest), he was glad that his friend had enthusiastically agreed.

“Um. _Ich spreche kein Deutsch. Mein Freund kann ubersetzten.”_

Phichit giggled. “Close enough. And Turkish?”

 

* * *

 

“Yuri. Yuri, wake up!” Viktor shook Yuri’s shoulder. He was rewarded with nothing more than a groan. “Yu _riiii._ ”

Nothing. Viktor rolled his eyes, picking up the nearest cat, who was curled around the boy’s feet. She let out a sleepy _mrrrp_. Viktor dropped her gently onto the unconscious boy’s face, watching with satisfaction as he sputtered back to life (well, insofar as that went).

“What the hell, Viktor? It’s barely sunset.” Yuri buried his face in the cat’s long white fur, as if to ward off the very idea of waking up.

“I have to go into town.”

“Great, so go. Just text me next time,” Yuri mumbled, rolling over to go back to sleep.

This wasn’t going to go over well. Viktor braced himself.

“I got a call from Chris. There’s a couple of people asking around about... about vampires.”

In an instant, Yuri was out of bed, tensed. He snarled, “Hunters?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“They’re going through the bars. You wouldn’t be able to go in.”

“I’ll wait outside.”

“Yura, it’ll be fine. I’m just going to take a look at them.”

“I’m not a _child,_ I should come with you – “

They were almost face to face now, minus the height difference. Yuri was almost pressed against Viktor’s chest, teeth bared as he took a breath, preparing to shout. Viktor cut him off.

“ _No._ Stay here, get some sleep, and for god’s sake, clean up your dishes before the carpet cleaners come tomorrow. I’ll text you updates. But you’re staying here, and I swear I will lock you in the cellar if you follow me.”

The fight fell away from Yuri, and he dropped back onto the bed, his face buried in the cat’s fur once again.

“Fine.”

 

* * *

 

Viktor swept into the bar Christophe had directed him to, nestled into a quiet corner of Kreuzberg 36. It was easy to spot the newcomers, who were attempting to casually chat with the bartender.

The two men hadn’t heard him come in, so he took a few moments to watch their attempts at a conversation; after a couple lines of hushed communication in English, and what Viktor guessed was a combination of Japanese and Thai, one of them would ask the bartender or another guest a careful question in barely accented German, before turning back to his companion and translating whatever grunted reply was received.

Regulars were huddled around the few tables scattered throughout the bar, whispering and shooting covert glances. One of them, a woman with a teal gleam in her skin, spotted Viktor and slipped over to him with catlike grace.

“They’ve been here for an hour, asking questions,” she murmured.

“What do they want to know?”

She grimaced. “The usual.”

The bartender had caught sight of Viktor and was making increasingly desperate gestures in his general direction, out of sight of his customers, who were now taking turns scribbling in a small notebook. The translator tapped his friend on the wrist and hopped off the stool, checking his phone as he wandered over to the restroom.

 _Clumsy,_ thought Viktor. _Or a trap._

He had promised Yuri that he was only here to take a look, to judge the situation and spread word if there was any danger. Instead, he took a seat at the bar stool next to the stranger, who was peering around anxiously. Viktor touched the man’s arm gently – no knives hidden in his sleeve, good.

The visitor started, nearly falling off the wobbly barstool, and Viktor caught him instinctively by the shoulder before he could hit the floor. Viktor would have sworn that his heart forgot its decades of stillness and fluttered to life when a pair of dark brown eyes met his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
> 

> 
> This author replies to comments.
> 
> Note: If you don’t want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I'm reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example), feel free to sign your comment with whisper and I will appreciate it but not respond!


	2. Chapter 2

Yuri _tried_ to stay at home. He really did.

He lay in bed for another hour, hoping to claim another few minutes of sleep, listening as the last breathy gasps of evening faded into the hum of night. He brushed all five of his cats, even Mitya, whose inbred-mutt ancestry left him with barely enough fur to comb. He scrolled through all his old social media accounts, left up as memorials to the boy he had been, though only the most devoted fans were leaving new messages after two years – of course, that probably would have happened anyway. His seventeenth birthday and second major growth spurt had stripped away most of his childish looks, and with them, the majority of his terrifying followers. It was the only good thing about getting taller, but the peace and quiet almost dulled the irritation of missing half his jumps for three months. _Almost._

He took a shower.

Brushed his hair and pinned it back. Grumbled as he tucked the loose strands out of his face, bemoaning the loss of mirrors.

Breakfast, lukewarm. His stomach was twisted into knots already, so it didn’t seem worth putting the mug back into the microwave for a few more seconds.

_Shithead._

Of course Viktor would run off to spy on vampire hunters, the idiot. Never mind that he was the _most_ obvious, dropping hints heavier than his Russian accent, unable to resist theatrics even in the interest of not getting murdered.

Yuri rearranged several shelves in the library, picturing the histrionics when Viktor found his French dictionaries scattered throughout world history and botany.

He even, eventually, gathered up the dishes scattered throughout the house, wiped stains off where he could, and shifted furniture over the handful of splotches on Viktor’s _stupid_ white carpets.

Viktor had texted him two more updates on his progress and three pictures of random buildings and statues, in lieu of the selfies Yuri _knew_ his vain ass yearned to take.

Yuri didn’t reply.

Instead, he opened Viktor’s laptop and carefully typed _M@kkach1n_ into the password box. The older man had adapted to modern technology surprisingly well, considering, but Yuri had been unable to convince him to take security seriously… not that he’d pushed so hard, recognizing the convenience of easy access to Viktor’s accounts. Yuri sorted through the apps until he found what he was looking for.

The messages loaded slowly – evidently, Viktor had been sending a lot of texts since he last used his computer.

 

 _To_ _котенок_ : [tap to load image] _read 3:52 am_ _To_ _котенок_ : [tap to load image] _read 3:11 am_ _To_ _котенок_ : Hey Yuri, ran into Ulrike at Kottbusser Tor! She wants to know how your German is coming along?[tap to load image] _read 2:30 am_

 _From 030 0052-62:_ Items due shortly. Please return materials to Berlin Public Library by November 14 to avoid late fees.

_received 11:25 am_

_Blah, blah, blah, could one person be any more boring?_ Yuri scowled. Even snooping wasn't fun enough to distract him. He opened another conversation.  

 _From Chris G:_ Attachment: 6 locations

[tap to open with Google Maps]

_received 4:03 pm_

 

 _Jackpot._ Yuri copied the addresses into his phone and slipped on his shoes. He spared a longing glance at his beloved leopard print hoodie, which Viktor had forbidden him to wear in public because it was ‘too recognizable,’ before donning a plain black jacket. Not because of the cold – he hadn’t been cold in years – but to blend in amongst the shivering Berliners. Besides, it had great pockets.

The S-Bahn station was only a few minutes away.

_Fucking Viktor, gotta go mess with vampire hunters and get us both killed. Asshole._

* * *

Yuuri blinked up at the stranger, whose steady hand was still resting on his shoulder as if afraid he would take another tumble, and flushed deeply. That was a great way to finish up the night. _Katsuki Yuuri, dignified researcher and scholar. Special skills include falling over and offending the locals._ He braced himself for the man’s laughter.

“Uh, danke? Ich spreche kein Deutsch.”

Instead, the man smiled – curious, but gentle - and asked, “You speak English?”

“Ah, yes,” spluttered Yuuri.

“Viktor Nikiforov. Pleased to meet you.” Viktor’s voice was warm as he lifted his hand from Yuuri’s shoulder and offered it. His English was accented with something vaguely similar to German, to Yuuri’s untrained ear, but that wasn’t quite right. A Slavic tongue? Its elegance suited Viktor’s hair, which was such a fine, pale blond that it seemed to glow silver in the low light. Or maybe it _was_ silver?

 _Too long. Abort. Stop staring at his hair no matter how soft it looks stop it._ He cleared his throat and took Viktor’s hand, which was cool against his embarrassed blush. Viktor must have just entered the bar. “Katsuki Yuuri.” _Wait, wrong order for English._ “Yuuri! I’m Yuuri.”

“Yuuri.” Viktor rolled the name on his tongue like a fine wine, almost purring, and Yuuri felt an answering shiver course down his spine.

Pale fingers gently traced his palm as Viktor withdrew his hand.

“Not many visitors show up in this part of town. It’s not very exciting, is it?” _Russian, maybe?_ The rounded vowels coated the English words like syrup, softening the language’s harsh flatness.

“Um, no. I mean yes? Yes, it’s interesting.” Yuuri’s mind fumbled for words. He wanted to blame the flight, the jetlag, the afternoon’s two hour nap that did nothing to fight off the leaden sleepiness of travel, but if he was honest with himself, Viktor’s icy blue eyes were just as responsible for his tied tongue. “I’m not a tourist, I’m here to, um…”

Viktor waited calmly as he scrambled for the right phrase.

“To hunt, to search for information? Research!”

A pause. Viktor was so still that Yuuri would have sworn the man wasn’t even breathing. Had he used the wrong word? No, he was sure the words were right. Was it slang? Had he just said something incredibly offensive? Oh, god –

“Well then. What kind of information are you looking for? I might be able to help.”

* * *

            Yuri must have traipsed across half of Berlin – half of Germany, even – looking for Viktor. Why did one city need so many bars? Why were so many of the godforsaken places open at five on a Thursday morning?

            He had hoped to eliminate a few of the locations based on their closing times, but apparently Google didn’t have hours for the places _they_ – the ones Yuri though of as ‘Viktor’s friends’ – frequented. Even worse, he was stuck peering through windows like a creeper, because the owners would throw him out immediately. Apparently Viktor had been right about that.

 _You flip_ one _table, when the bastard completely deserved it, and suddenly everyone knows you as that Russian punk._ Apparently some shithead had gotten a recording of him shouting (for once, Yuri was grateful he didn’t show up on film anymore) and sent it to all of supernatural Berlin.

At least Viktor had stopped trying to introduce Yuri to his friends.

However, now he was stuck wandering around the city, trying to make sure Viktor didn’t get himself staked for flashing his fangs at some cute, bloodthirsty mortal. No pun intended.

Viktor’s texts were infuriating breadcrumbs, hinting at a street here and a landmark there, but not enough to pinpoint his location or trajectory, especially not for Yuri, who was still woefully unfamiliar with the majority of Berlin. Knowing Viktor, this was intentional: leave enough clues to assure Yuri that he was safe (so far), but without enough information to tempt the boy to follow.

 _Yeah, look how well_ that _worked out,_ Yuri grumbled to himself, trotting across another picturesque, historical street studded with abandoned beer bottles. He pulled out his phone to check for the next spot on his list. No one paid the angry Russian a second glance. In fact, many people didn’t even bother with a _first_ look.

He was crossing the street, heading for Möckernbrücke, when a car backed into him, trying to ease its way into a parking spot along the road, throwing Yuri onto the sidewalk. His phone skittered across the pavement as he tumbled to the ground. _There’s that old Plisetsky grace._ Of course, a mere car wasn’t enough to be any more than a serious annoyance to Yuri. He pulled himself to his feet, wiping wet grime from his jeans.

“Hey asshole! What the _fuck?_ ” he shouted, realizing halfway through that his words were in Russian.

A motherly looking woman, middle aged, with brown hair and a kind face, scrambled out of the car.

“Oh mein Gott! Bist du verletzt? Oh Gott, es tut mir leid- ich hab’ dich nicht gesehen-“ She was bustling over, wringing her hands. He winced at her teary eyes.

“Pas mal auf!” _Watch out._ She probably _had_ looked, he realized – but, unfortunately for him, her car mirrors wouldn’t have done much to spot him. “Hexe.”

He brushed the woman off, leaving her to cry or call the police or whatever it was one did after running over a pedestrian, and scooped his phone off the pavement. The screen was shattered – apparently he’d been hit a bit harder than he thought. He thumbed the home button, and then the power. No response. _Shit._

What time was it? Almost six, he thought. Viktor was still in the city, judging by the last text before his phone’s untimely demise, but without a map, Yuri had no chance of finding him. And worse, he realized, stomach sinking, he didn’t have much of a chance of getting home before Viktor realized he’d left, or before the brightening horizon gave way to sunrise.

* * *

 

“I was gone for _five minutes!”_ Phichit was a bit sheepish about missing their first useful meeting: when he returned to the bar, Yuuri was staring at a piece of paper as if the few words written on it spelled out the secrets of the universe.

“Yuuri? _Yuuri!”_

“Huh? Oh, sorry...” Yuuri was flushed slightly, and Phichit didn’t think it was entirely due to the warm, still air trapped within the small pub. His voice trailed off again.

“Come on, spill!” Waves of excitement eroded his patience and weariness with their heretofore fruitless night. “What did I miss?”

The scrap of paper was offered to him without words. It didn’t say much.

An address. What looked like directions through Berlin’s local train network. A phone number.

“I think I found someone – um, something.”

* * *

The bike hummed beneath him, and Otabek took a moment to appreciate the sleek machine. Its engine was quiet enough that he didn’t feel self-conscious roaring through the sleeping city, but it seemed to have sacrificed none of its power for the relative silence.

Berlin really was a beautiful city, especially in the tranquil pre-dawn, and he wished for a moment that he had more time to explore it. The mishmash of architecture, cobblestone sidewalks, cherished greenery, felt at once like home and entirely new. Unfortunately, he had no motivation to sightsee. He was looking for something else. Otabek checked his phone again, already knowing that he had no new messages.

He opened the video folder on his phone without thinking, selected a file, and pressed play. Muffled shouts crackled from the tiny speaker, doing little to convince him that he was here for a reason, and not in thrall of extended, vivid hallucinations. One of his acquaintances, an American he’d met while staying in the Czech Republic, had sent the clip to him several months ago.

 _“Look at this fuckin’ punk. You speak Russian, right? What’s he saying?”_ Otabek had sighed, regretting giving out his phone number so freely, but listened to it anyway. The video was too dark to make out anything of note, other than something falling over - a table? - and a scramble of figures converging on a spot of what looked like thin air. He didn’t expect to recognize the voice, or its staggering vocabulary of vulgarities. He definitely didn't expect the video to drag him halfway across Europe on what was looking more and more like a fool's errand.

But here he was, wandering through an unfamiliar country, where he didn’t speak the language, looking for the source of what was most likely an uncomfortable coincidence, and was _definitely_ virtually impossible to find in an entire city without so much as a hint as to where to begin. It was another night of fruitless searching. He turned the motorcycle around, slipping into the trickle of early morning commuters, before pulling off in the direction of the deserted alleys that led to his dingy, hastily rented apartment.

A lone figure ran along the sidewalks. Otabek would have mistaken him for a motivated jogger, if not for the sinewy, fluid movements and familiar figure. He jerked his bike over, skidding to a halt in front of the runner.

Otabek’s heart was pounding a sickening, dizzying rhythm, but he schooled his face into stoicism as he pulled his helmet off to get a better look.

 

“Yuri Plisetsky died two years ago,” he growled. “What the  _hell_ are you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As noted, Yurio is older here than he is in the show. For my purposes, he was born 20 years before this story's setting. Likewise, most of the other characters are also five years older.  
> 


	3. Chapter 3

            _“Beka?”_ Yuri gaped at the man in front of him, unsure of whether this was a dream or a nightmare. Otabek swung himself off the bike with liquid grace, never breaking eye contact. A low growl – a _growl?! –_ rumbled through the alley, and Yuri quickly amended his previous thought. _Nightmare, definitely a nightmare._

            “Yuri Plisetsky is dead,” Otabek repeated. “I went to his _funeral._ ”

            The words Yuri could throw like knives deserted him. “I… Beka, I fell, and I woke up, I’m sorry -”

            “ _Don’t call me that_. Yuri Plisetsky never fell.” He let out a laugh that wasn’t quite a laugh, but something feral and cruel. “You’re wearing his face and you don’t even have a heartbeat. What _are_ you?”

            This was his Otabek, but it wasn’t. His face was the same, if a bit harder and curled into an uncharacteristic sneer, but Yuri’s instincts were screaming at him to run. He fought down the rising panic, straining his senses. He was a _vampire,_ he could hold his own in any fight, as long as he kept his wits about him. The _thump whoosh_ of adrenaline-driven blood rushing through Otabek’s body. Harsh breathing, barely controlled. A tang of hot metal and forest in the air. Otabek shifted his shoulders, a deep grinding of bone and tendon, that lengthened and deepened as Yuri stared in open-mouthed horror.

            With a sickening _crack_ , Otabek dropped to all fours, but he wasn’t Otabek anymore. The creature that had taken his place was covered in a thick pelt of dark fur. Heavy claws _tap tap tapped_ against the sidewalk as it stalked towards Yuri, a snarl revealing teeth like pearly knives. Yuri bared his own fangs as it fixed him with gleaming yellow eyes. The thought of fighting not-Beka turned his stomach. Could he outrun the monster? Outclimb? He edged away until his back was pressed against the hard stones of the building behind him.

            A figure appeared at the mouth of the street, a silhouette ringed by the glow of a streetlamp. Yuri wanted to shout at them to run, to get as far away as possible; he wasn’t sure that _he_ had a chance. A hapless pedestrian would be torn to shreds. He opened his mouth to warn them, but cut himself off, fearing that he would just draw attention to easier prey… even if the thing seemed _very_ focused on its current target.

            Otabek lunged. _Incapacitate and run. Don’t wrestle, try to go up, no fingers means no climbing._ Yuri braced himself for the impact, but it never came. Instead, the monster remained suspended in midair, a pair of pale arms wrapped around its midriff.

            “Now, Mr. Wolf, that won’t be necessary. I’m sure we can resolve this-“ the words were cut off with a grunt of effort as the thing thrashed- “ _peacefully._ ”

            _“Viktor?”_

            Otabek twisted and bit Viktor’s bicep. Viktor returned the favor.

            “Hey Yuri.” The words were slightly muffled by Otabek’s ear.

* * *

          Viktor didn’t try to talk to Yuri on the drive back to the house.

            He wanted to. He wanted to lecture the boy about staying out so close to dawn, about picking fights with werewolves, about sneaking out of the house after being told to stay home so he wouldn’t get himself killed. And they would have that conversation, because even if Yuri wasn’t a child, he was still Viktor’s responsibility. Even as resilient as they were, vampires were fragile, relics of an ancient magic clinging to a world that no longer had a place for them. Most, he knew, didn’t get through their first few months. The remainder were lucky to make it a decade.

            The ones who survived were those with mentors who stayed with them, taught them, protected them, as they ushered their charges into a new world where sunlight could kill, where a life required eternal vigilance.

            But right now, there was nothing he could protect Yuri from. That part of the night, at least, was over. He had restrained Otabek for several long minutes until the werewolf shifted back, frustrated and exhausted from the impromptu, moonless change. Nevertheless, he had refused to let them leave without them, and was trailing behind them on his rented motorbike.

            “Hey,” Yuri mumbled, squinting his eyes against the coming dawn, “how did you find me?”

            “Well. I got the strangest call from my friend at the police station,” he said with a smirk. “A woman called to file a report. _Apparently,_ she hit a young blond man with her car while parking in central Kreuzberg, hard enough to leave quite a dent. He shouted at her in Russian and ran off before she could call an ambulance. Based on his irrational behavior, she was worried he might have a head injury.”

            Yuri grunted.

            “Now, when I heard that report, I had no idea who it could be. The only person I know who matches that description was safely at home.” Okay, maybe he wasn’t above a little bit of scolding. “But I thought I should probably take a look anyway.”

            “Of course,” he continued, “the victim had left Möckernbrücke by the time I got there, but I did catch a familiar draft of cat dander and carpet shampoo, and I figured that you might appreciate a life home, what with the impending sunrise and all.”

            “You _smelled_ me out? That’s fucking creepy.”

            “I looked right silly doing it, too, driving up and down Yorckstraße with my head hanging out the window.”

            He hoped _that_ would get a reaction, a quirk of the lips if not Yuri’s surprisingly soft laughter, but the blond remained motionless in the passenger seat, folded into himself.

            “So, you know that young man?” His voice lifted into a question, but he wasn’t actually asking. He didn’t need to.

            “Mm.”

            Viktor waited. Not patiently – he wasn’t good at patience – but he did a _great_ impression of it. A couple of years with Yuri had taught him that the kid could clam up like a bear trap, or simply explode, if he was pushed.

            “Rinkmate. Back in St. Petersberg.”

            _Quiet, Vitya. Let him say it._

            “Otabek Altin. We were friends. He left, actually retired, a few months before the accident.” Yuri snorted. “He was really good, too. Took gold at the Grand Prix Final two years after my senior debut, when I flubbed my quad salchow.”

Yuri’s face shone as he recounted their competitions, both formal and those driven by nothing more than teenage boredom. Even after the night he’d had, even after _everything,_ Yuri loved the ice. The young man’s – Otabek’s – face took on a veneer of familiarity in Viktor’s mind. He _had_ seen him before.

            Viktor pulled the car into the driveway. They were half an hour clear of true dawn, and here, the dense trees blocked the feeble hints of light. The two would escape with nothing more than sore skin and headaches. He unlocked the front door, allowing Yuri to slouch over the threshold while he waited for their guest to park his bike and follow them in. The werewolf looked like he was questioning every choice that had led him to this moment, but after a moment’s pause, he too stepped into the dark hallway.

* * *

          The house was… odd. Reinforced shutters were bolted across every window, and claustrophobia began to whisper its way through his veins. He stepped closer to one, running his fingers over the carefully sealed layers of cloth and wood, and was slightly surprised to note that, while sturdy, they were clearly not designed to contain anything other than light. The tightness in his chest relaxed slightly. He took a deep breath. The air was still and stale, with no drafts - not dusty, but untouched. Unused. Odors tickled his nose, and he tried to place each one. An industrial, lemony chemical, probably some form of cleaning chemical. Cats. A metallic tang suffused the room, overshadowed only by the unfamiliar and unsettling, but not precisely unpleasant, scent that clung to the home’s occupants, who were arguing quietly in the next room.

The older man’s voice (Otabek wouldn’t go so far as to say _human,_ but _man_ seemed a neutral enough description) was a soft murmur, his tones low but not hushed. He evidently knew the visitor could hear him, and didn’t much care. The _other_ used a harsh whisper, hissing what could more accurately be termed snarls than sentences. That one also knew he was eavesdropping, or at least suspected it, and wasn’t so calm about the idea.

            “Go to bed, Yuri, please. I don’t think we’re going to make any progress until we get some sleep – _all_ of us.”

            “Don’t lecture me, old man. I’m not the one who decided to plan a _sleepover_.”

            A sigh. “Don’t worry, there won’t be any trouble tonight, and we’ll all sit down and have a talk first thing- _second_ thing tomorrow.”

            “ _Second_ thing?”

            “Yes, uh, I forgot to mention this in the car, but I invited a guest over for dinner tomorrow.”

            Otabek swore he could feel a chill creep across the floor. He _knew_ the look the silver haired man was receiving.

            “You’re welcome to join us, but it would be best if you avoided any behavior that might… upset people. Fangs, and the like.”

            “A _human?_ ” Well, that was that question answered. Kind of. “Did you actually look for the hunters, or did you just spend the night chasing tail?”

            “Um, actually.”

His curiosity got the best of him, and he peered around the doorway. The creature that looked so much like Yuri was staring at his companion, mouth open in horror. Both of them appeared to have completely forgotten his presence.

            “You _didn’t.”_

           Otabek jumped backwards as the boy barreled out of the room. Their arms brushed, and both flinched. Their eyes met for an instant, but they both looked away before he could catch more than a flash of green. The other man – _Viktor,_ he suddenly remembered Yuri’s voice saying – called after him.

            “Yuri! Can you take your stuff out of the guest room?”

            The blond stomped back and yanked open of the doors lining the hallway, slamming it into the wall, and disappeared down a set of steps.

            The guest room, huh.

            After a minute, he stormed back up the steps, with a garish red and black tiger striped quilt, and a cat tucked under each arm.

            _“Fucker,”_ he spat at Viktor, and vanished into the depths of the house.

            Viktor turned back to Otabek.

            “Coffee? I don’t drink it myself, of course, but I keep a bit around for visitors.”

            Otabek opened his mouth, ready to refuse, but Viktor’s face made it clear that it wasn’t actually optional. He nodded instead, and Viktor smiled.

            “Great! I think we need to have a little chat.”


	4. Chapter 4

Viktor took his time preparing the coffee; although he could no longer drink the stuff himself, he enjoyed the routine, and relished the rich scent that suffused the kitchen. He could feel Otabek’s eyes tracking his every movement, but the werewolf never moved a muscle, except to flinch slightly when the moka pot’s sharp whistle cut through the air. Viktor poured two cups (after checking that Yuri hadn’t slacked off on dishwashing duty), and set both mugs on the kitchen table. He slid one across the table, and cupped his hands around the other. Its heat seeped from the smooth ceramic, driving away some of the inescapable chill from his pale fingers.

            “Sugar? I don’t have any cream, I’m afraid.”

            Otabek jerked his head, the gesture more of a spasm than a nod. _He’s a talkative one._ Viktor retrieved the sugar bowl from its dusty exile, stuffed away in the back of an unused cabinet, hoping it wasn’t stale. Did sugar get stale? He couldn’t remember. Otabek peered at it with suspicion, but apparently it passed the brief inspection, because he stirred a heaping spoonful into his coffee, before taking a tentative sip. Viktor inhaled the steam rising from his own cup. He was trying to remember to keep breathing, in the hopes it would put the werewolf somewhat more at ease.

            It seemed to be working. Kind of.

            Otabek’s mouth began to form a question. Viktor put a finger to his lips, shushing Otabek before he could begin to speak, and turned to call softly into the hallway.

            “Yuri, I’m going to throw out your hoodie. The cat peed on it.” The rest of the house was silent. Otabek lifted an eyebrow, noting the distinct lack of soiled jackets.

            “Also, I’ve decided to adopt an entire litter of puppies. We’ll go pick them up tomorrow,” he added. Still nothing. He turned back to his coffee. “Yuri’s asleep, judging by how the kitchen door is still on its hinges. I didn’t think you would want him to be a part of this conversation.”

            Otabek’s mouth opened again, and then closed. His eyebrow was still arched - he seemed to have stalled out entirely. Viktor hurried to continue before the man broke any furniture or jumped through the kitchen window and vanished into the woods.

            “Anyway, you can sleep in the guest bedroom! It’s set up for emergencies, so there are locks on both sides. You don’t have to worry about waking up dead tomorrow.”

            A soft huff. It could have been called a laugh, if one was able to extract all implications of humor from the word.

            “Why did you let me follow you?”

            “I was curious. Besides, I don’t think you’re much of a threat.”

            “I almost killed Yu- your… friend.”

Viktor scratched absentmindedly at a ring on the table, considering his options. “Well, I don’t know much about werewolves-“ another flinch- “Yes, I did notice, you weren’t exactly subtle, Mr. Altin. Anyway, as I was saying, I don’t know much, other than that you shouldn’t corner one, because that’s how you get eaten.”

Otabek’s face was still carefully blank, but he leaned forward slightly.

“From what I’ve been told, changing- with the exception of the full moon, of course- is primarily a defense mechanism. Now, I didn’t see the beginning of your… meeting, but it didn’t look like Yuri had you with your back to a wall.”

“Maybe I was getting rid of a future threat.” Viktor stifled a laugh; even Otabek didn’t look convinced by his own words.

“Your wolf isn’t that stupid, even if you are. You wouldn’t have lasted a week if you went around biting everything that could turn out to be a threat.” For the first time, Viktor looked straight into Otabek’s eyes – not as a threat, but a challenge. “I think you saw your friend, your _pack,_ but not like you remembered him. Your internal conflict forced a change, and your wolf took over, but its instincts couldn’t cope either. All it knew was that something was wrong.

“If I had believed that you intended to hurt him, you would have never left that alley. Now, _please_ correct me if I’m wrong here-“ that _was_ a threat- “but I don’t think you were really trying to attack him. You were trying to protect Yuri from… _Yuri.”_

* * *

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Over the past twelve hours, Viktor’s invitation had started to seem less like their first major breakthrough, and more like what was colloquially known as a _‘terrible fucking idea._ ’ But Yuuri and Phichit hadn’t flown to Germany after almost a year of writing grant proposals to throw away their first – and possibly only – chance.

“Of course I am,” Yuuri replied. He threw more clothing onto his bed. “How formal do you think this is? And which of these says ‘please don’t eat me?’”

Phichit rested his chin in his hands and considered them. One was a slim blue button-down, the other a long-sleeved black pullover. “Depends on what you mean by ‘eat me.’”

“ _Phichit!_ ”

“I’m just saying, we don’t even know if this will be useful. He could just be some guy trying to pick up the cute Japanese tourist.”

Yuuri considered this idea. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Phichit sighed, his expression torn between excitement and anxiety.

“I mean, he could also be planning to lock you in his murder basement.”

“It’s a risk either way. We can chance losing the only contact we might find for months, or I can go and spend the evening with someone who is probably just a nice, normal man who happens to study vampirism in his spare time. Besides, you have the address, and if I stop texting, you can call the poli- _shit._ ” Yuuri’s stomach tightened into a knot, and he covered his face with his hands.

“What? What’s wrong? Are you okay?” Phichit was halfway out of his chair before the words left his mouth. Yuuri groaned.

“I forgot to pack dress shoes.”

* * *

“ _Please_ put on some decent clothes, Yuri, you look like you just crawled out of your own grave. And I swear to god, if I find _one more_ bloodstain in this kitchen…”

“So what? It wipes off just fine.”

“I can’t have someone over when there’s _blood_ on the _dining table._ ” Viktor kneaded his temples gently, trying to massage away the tension headache that had begun to form. At least Otabek hadn’t joined them, instead opting to order takeout and disappear back into the basement with a stack of books. Viktor wouldn’t have to explain why the two boys were staring daggers at each other the entire evening.

“Yeah? Maybe you should cancel,” Yuri spat back at him.

“We talked about this, Yura, I’m just trying to find out more.” Admittedly, that reasoning had sounded better before he said it out loud. “Why would a team of hunters be in _Berlin,_ of all places?”

“You mean, besides all the vampires?” If looks could kill, Viktor would be in pieces on the tiled floor.

“Vampires who don’t do anything other than cuss out little old ladies and break their cars. Besides, he has no idea what we are. I was _very_ careful.”

“Which is why you invited him to _dinner._ At our _house._ With _food_ that we can’t _eat._ ”

Viktor blinked. His little plan suddenly seemed a lot less foolproof.

“Oh no…” he whispered to himself. Yuri smirked.

“We don’t have any food!”

* * *

Yuuri stepped off the train – the _S-Bahn,_ Phichit had called it – and checked the directions on his phone. According to his map, it was only a ten minute walk from the tiny station to Viktor’s house. He put the device away, blinking against the bright spots that floated across his vision, and slowly made his way down the narrow street.

It was slightly shocking how quickly the center of Berlin had faded into the countryside. After just a few minutes on the train, the landscape outside had shifted from packed buildings to peaceful suburbs, which had faded into trees and fields, with no more than lighted windows from the occasional house dotting the darkened landscape. Yuuri found himself relaxing despite his daunting task, comforted by the peacefulness of his surroundings. The city was beautiful – like so many others, he had been immediately taken in by its glamor, how everyday life was surrounded by anachronisms of shabby buildings and breathtaking grandeur – but it was also a _lot._ He missed Hasetsu, with its small-town charm, though he hadn’t lived there for quite a few years.

He was almost sad when he reached the long gravel driveway that led up to a yellow stucco house. The number written on the mailbox matched the address scribbled on the slip of paper he still clutched, which was, by now, slightly damper and greyer than it was last night.

Yuuri lifted his hand to knock on the front door, and hesitated, leaning back to take another look at the house. It was larger than he had thought at first, but not huge, its two stories cradled between huge sycamores. The small garden in front consisted of rose bushes, skeletal in the November chill, and several small evergreens. An outdoor table with two chairs stood next to one of the trees. He turned back to the house and took a deep breath. At least he’d gotten enough sleep to be able to hold a coherent conversation.

Before he could knock, the door swung open. Yuuri started, his fist still hanging in the air. Viktor stood in the doorway, the hall light creating a halo as it shone through the edges of his silver hair.

            “Yuuri! Come in, please!”

            “Ah, he-hello!” The top two buttons of Viktor’s burgundy dress shirt were unbuttoned, revealing a hint of pale skin and prominent collarbones, making Yuuri feel at once overdressed and informal in the grey v-neck sweater, white collared shirt, and black dress slacks Phichit had finally nagged him into choosing.

He gulped, and brandished the bottle of wine he had picked up before he left the city.

            “Thank you.” Viktor took the bottle gingerly, and his fingers brushed against Yuuri’s wrist. Their touch was soft, and still held the chill of the previous night.

            Yuuri slipped off his shoes, which had been hastily borrowed from Phichit and were half a size too small for his feet. _Thank god this isn’t America,_ he thought, wincing as the blood flowed back into his toes. _I’d have had to keep them on all night._ He followed Viktor through the hallway and into a gleaming kitchen, resisting the urge to shield his eyes from the sudden burst of light. After a moment, he realized that it wasn’t so much the brightness of the room as it was the _cleanness,_ every surface sparkling as if carved from diamond. He couldn’t quite believe that anyone had ever cooked anything on the shining stove. Even the dark wood of the table seemed to give off its own glow.  

            One thing seemed out of place, though.

            A blond teenager in torn jeans and a black t-shirt sat on the kitchen counter, slouched against the wall behind him. The boy didn’t move a muscle as Yuuri walked into the room, but he could feel a pair of eyes watching him from underneath the pale fringe of hair.

            “Ah, Yuri! This is Yuuri Katsuki. Yuuri, this is my brother Yuri.”

            Yuri pushed himself off the counter, his bare feet hitting the floor with a soft _thump_ and stepped closer, until they were nearly nose to nose. Although the teenager was no more than a hair’s breath taller than him, Yuuri felt himself shrinking against the doorframe as piercing green eyes met his.

            “We don’t need two Yuris in this house,” the boy snarled.


	5. Chapter 5

Despite himself, Yuri was impressed by the smooth recovery.

            “You’re right, of course!” Viktor smiled, looking very much like as if he wished to lock Yuri in one of the empty kitchen cabinets for the rest of the night. “It’s going to get very confusing.”

            The… _guest_ looked more like a librarian than a predator, with messy black hair and wide brown eyes that peered anxiously from behind thick, bookish glasses.

            Viktor lifted a finger to his lips, deep in thought – or at least as deep in thought as Viktor could get, which was barely enough to get your toes wet. Yuri was convinced that the man’s mental reserves were more akin to a kiddie pool than an ocean.

            “I know! Yuri, you can be Yurio.”

            If this was punishment, it was working. Yuri clenched his teeth, suppressing the urge to bare his fangs at Viktor. He remained silent, glad that no telltale blush could rise in his pale cheeks. Viktor, perhaps not quite so oblivious as he appeared, fluttered around the kitchen, ushering Yuuri to a place at the table.

            Dinner itself was… interesting. Viktor placed the bottle of Cabernet in the center of their small table, wedged between the artfully (read: terribly) arranged dishes of food that had been ordered from whichever restaurant had promised the shortest wait.

            “Could you grab some glasses, please, Yurio?” Viktor gestured helplessly at Yuri, staring at the wine as if it had sprouted legs and begun to scuttle across the table.

            They had no wine glasses. Or any glasses. Yuri inspected their extensive collection of mugs, eventually pulling out two made of clear plastic. One was adorned with a smiling cartoon poodle. He dropped them onto the table, where they joined three plates - which had spent the last several years of their existence pinned under potted plants – and several mismatched forks. There were no knives.

            “Ah,” ventured Yuuri, “I didn’t bring a corkscrew.”

            Arching an eyebrow at Viktor, Yuri sank back into his chair. They _definitely_ didn’t have a corkscrew. Viktor’s eyelid twitched.

            “I’m sorry,” he managed. “We don’t usually drink… wine.”

            Yuri’s forehead smacked the table with a dull _thunk._ If he was lucky, the hunter – incompetent as he might be - would kill him before embarrassment could.

            Unfortunately, Yuuri didn’t deign to put Yuri out of his misery. Instead, he scooped some of the food – salad, and some form of pasta dish that made Yuri want to both retch and mourn the lost blessing of carbs – onto his plate. Viktor followed suit before trying to offer some to Yuri.

            “I’m not hungry.” After months of neglect, the English words felt clumsy on his tongue, though he’d started learning the early in his childhood. The tilt of Yuuri’s head as he tried to figure out what Yuri had said told him that his accent was doing its best to swallow the clunky syllables. Yuri glared back at him.

            Viktor was the one who finally broke the staring contest.

            “So, Yuuri, how are you finding Berlin so far?”

            “It’s very, um, beautiful!” The hunter was nervous. His hands were shaking slightly, and the slight tremor was seeping into his voice. He took a bite of pasta. Viktor pushed his around the plate. “Though I haven’t really seen it during the day…”

            That wasn’t where Yuri wanted the conversation to go. _Come on, Viktor, make yourself useful and distract him._

“Well, let’s get to business! Tell me more about your… research, Yuuri.”

            _No no no no._ Alarm bells went off in his head. He inched to the edge of his seat, ready to run or fight.

            Yuuri’s face brightened, excitement replacing anxiety.

            “Right! So obviously, there aren’t very many trustworthy works about vampires.”

            Viktor’s pleasant smile had frozen into a rictus of dawning horror.

            “I mean,” he continued, “we have a lot of first person accounts, and almost every culture has its own version of the mythology, but it’s almost impossible to sort the facts from the fiction. Even accounts _by_ self-described vampires are contradictory and full of guesswork.”

            His face was open and inviting, seemingly absent of any malice. He just looked… interested. Something nagged at the back of Yuri’s mind. Who _was_ this?

            “- what with the growing connections between international communities, who were essentially isolated before modern travel and especially the internet, there’s been more funding for actual _studies._ ”

            Viktor nodded mutely, obviously entranced by the magnetic enthusiasm.

            “How interesting. And your, er, personal interest?”

            Giddiness poured through Yuri’s body, and he stifled a giggle. He’d thought Viktor was an idiot _before,_ but he couldn’t be this oblivious, could he? But no, the his fingers were clenching the edge of the table with almost enough force to shatter it into splinters. He hadn’t figured it out. He really hadn’t figured it out.

            Yuuri Katsuki wasn’t a vampire hunter. He was a grad student.

* * *

       _That had gone well,_ Yuuri thought as Viktor walked him to the door. Astoundingly well, when one considered that the bar had been set at ‘not getting eaten.’

            The thought embarrassed him now. Viktor and his brother were perfectly nice people - Yuuri immediately revised that thought. _Viktor_ was a perfectly nice person, and Yurio, although obviously uncomfortable around a stranger who asked personal questions that probably verged on being terribly offensive, was probably a lovely boy deep down. _Very_ deep down.

            So, it had been unfair to judge them based on stereotypes, many of which were so patently ridiculous that Yuuri couldn’t believe he’d considered them for even an instant. After all, how would a single vampire have survived if they went around sucking people dry every night? And how would one even manage to drink that much? Humans had a lot of blood, after all.

“Thank you for having me.”

            “It was my pleasure. I only wish I could have been more help.” Viktor’s voice was soft.

“Oh, no! It was very enlightening. Your library… it’s amazing.” Yuuri slipped on his shoes. Viktor held out his coat. Their eyes met.

Yuuri was struck with a sudden urge to blurt out everything he’d been thinking the entire night, manners be damned. About how Viktor didn’t have to go out of his way to make Yuuri comfortable, to pretend to be something he wasn’t. As if he was something ugly.

But… something in the blue eyes stopped him – sadness, he thought, and even fear. Every time Viktor had said something that made Yuuri lean forward, certain that his host had finally begun to trust him, he would freeze and demur with a comment about some historical curiosity or theoretical musing. Despite the lack of an invitation, Yuuri regretted not bringing Phichit, whose earnest openness put everyone at ease. People liked to talk to him. People liked _Phichit._

And Yuuri, despite his attempts at professional detachment, liked Viktor.

He stood, halfway across the threshold, reluctant to leave.

Yuuri wasn’t going to let this slip away.

“Let’s talk again soon.”

“I’d like that.”

It wasn’t a yes, but it wasn’t a no either. Yuuri clutched the small flame of hope that sparked to life in his chest.

Viktor took Yuuri’s elbow, his touch featherlight.

“Goodnight, Yuuri.”

“Goodnight, Viktor.”

He stepped through the doorway.

“Hey. Wait a minute.” Yuuri’s heart leapt, but it wasn’t Viktor’s voice that had spoken, but a harsher tone that cut the chilly air like a knife. He turned. Yurio pushed past Viktor, and Yuuri braced himself.

“I’m going to walk you to the station.”

* * *

Honestly, Viktor deserved this, Yuri thought. He really, _really_ did, if only as revenge for that humiliating nickname.

The two walked in silence for several minutes, picking their way down the darkened driveway and along the street. Yuri waited until they were halfway to the station – far enough away that Viktor couldn’t hear them – before he said anything.

“Ask him to take you sightseeing. And to his favorite restaurant. Don’t worry about the food, he loves the atmosphere.”

Yuuri jumped slightly. He was nervous again, Yuri knew. It seemed to be the man’s default state, when he wasn’t nerding out.

“And don’t push him. He doesn’t like to talk about himself. Well, he does, but not in _that_ way.”

A nod. They reached the station.

“This is my phone number. But,” Yuri sneered, allowing one razor sharp fang to glisten in the dim light of the platform, “if you’re using him…”

He wasn’t worried about Viktor - even if the man had suddenly turned into a smitten idiot with a death wish. It was fun to watch the blood drain from Yuuri’s face, leaving his cheeks an ashen gray. After all, no one had ever accused Yuri of being nice.

* * *

His pencil scratched across the notebook, retracing the words he had just erased, once more carving them into the page with harsh strokes. The lead snapped. The page was covered in scribbled notes; most were annotated with dates and citations, others underlined or circled. He had been unable to sleep. Instead, Otabek had researched, taking advantage of Viktor’s staggering collection of books, many of which were now scattered across the table in front of him. Information he had dreamed of for years, just lying in front of him.

Finally exhausting the relevant texts, he turned to online historical databases. Otabek struggled through old diary entries, fumbling through the archaic English for any sense of reason behind feverish recounts of possession and monsters. Several files were scans of the original documents, and he peered at the faded, spidery handwriting on the small screen of his phone until his eyes began to water and blur with strain, trying to decipher their stories of unclean spirits, of loved ones who were gone and then _not,_ horrors and wonders and miracles laid bare. He even, once every new alley was blocked by paywalls and login pages, made a brief foray into the depths of forums on the supernatural, before throwing his phone down in frustration.

And none of it made any difference.

The resulting list was a collection of questions without answers, grains of truth cloaked in layers of legend and superstition. He was left with an ache between his temples that throbbed in tandem with the pain in his chest that had risen from its slumber the moment he listened to that accursed video.

Otabek climbed the stairs to the main floor, clutching a stack of books to return to their spots on the shelves of Viktor’s library. The day’s research hadn’t exactly been a waste – after all, it had prevented him from thinking too much about his current location in a dead man’s basement – but it also hadn’t changed anything.

He carefully slid each book back into its dedicated spot on the gleaming wooden shelves, then stepped into the hallway.

Otabek hesitated. The front door was only a few feet away. He could walk through it, get on his bike, and keep riding until what had happened in Berlin was nothing more than the scent of motor oil and blacktop. He wanted to leave. Otabek wanted to remember Yuri as he was the last time they were together, gliding across the ice with an intensity that was both a promise and a challenge to the world, not as the thing that had been wandering through the dark streets, with neither a pulse nor breath.

People didn’t come back. Yuri – _his_ Yuri, a force of nature whose slender body held so much life, so much hunger for more, to be more – was gone. Whatever had taken his place, looking out from behind those green eyes, was all that remained.

Otabek stepped towards the door, and felt the wolf inside him stir. His heart twisted. Just like the night before, when he had lain pinned to the cold ground with blood trickling down his cheek and Viktor’s knee in the center of his back, his rational mind told him to leave.

His rational mind, however, wasn’t in charge. He had been unable to tear himself away. Viktor had been right, even if Otabek didn’t realize it until the words were hanging in the air in front of him. His wolf didn’t understand that Yuri wasn’t Yuri, and it wouldn’t until he had an answer to subdue it.

He didn’t go out into the quiet night. Instead, he found himself in the kitchen where he and Viktor had talked as the sun began its journey across the sky.

Yuri who wasn’t Yuri sat at the table, his pale fingers wrapped around a coffee mug. From the heavy, rich smell of iron that rose from the cup, Otabek knew it wasn’t filled with coffee. He tried to ignore it, with some success – the wolf thought it smelled like dinner. His stomach growled softly. The blond boy smirked.

“There’s food in the fridge.”

Otabek arched an eyebrow. It wasn’t exactly an invitation, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what qualified as food, but pulled the refrigerator door open anyway. Several takeout containers were stacked precariously in one corner. Paper cartons filled the top shelf, each labeled neatly with a date.

“Yeah, turns out you can just buy blood. It’s a thing.”

Otabek grunted and took out the leftover takeout. He checked a couple of cabinets, looking for a plate, before giving a mental shrug and popping open the lid of the foam box.

Pasta. Okay.

There was a fork lying in the sink. He rinsed it, and leaned back against the kitchen counter to eat. He stared at the boy, who slammed his mug down onto the wooden table.

“Do you _mind?”_ he hissed. Otabek stiffened, but didn’t lower his gaze.

“How did you get that body?”

A derisive snort. “It was a gift from my parents.”

Wrong tactic. Otabek tried again.

“What are you?”

“Leaving.”

Otabek watched him as he snatched the mug off the table and stormed into the hallway. A door slammed.

It didn’t hurt, he told himself. He was just being proven right. Yuri, whose flashpoint temper sparked and raged before burning out as quickly as it had come, wouldn’t have looked at Otabek with eyes as cold as ice.

* * *

Yuri wrapped his arms around Zoyenka. The old cat squirmed, but didn’t try to escape, instead settling against his chest. He pressed his face into her soft white fur. Hermes rubbed against his elbow, jealous of the attention, and Yuri tickled the cat’s chin.

He hadn’t realized how much pain had been locked away until now, as it battered against him in waves, leaving him clinging to Zoye as the world swirled around him.

Why now? Why at all? After leaving St. Petersburg – _retiring -_ without so much as saying goodbye to Yuri, despite how they’d fallen into a routine of friendship and maybe-something-else, Otabek was here. In his house. Staring at him like he was a monster.

Oh, yeah, and apparently Otabek was a werewolf now.

It would be the middle of the night in Moscow, but… He pulled his phone out of his back pocket and called the only person in the world he wanted to talk to.

_“Yurochka! It’s good to hear from you again.”_

“Hi, Grandpa.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content note:** This chapter gets pretty dark. If you would like an overview of trigger warnings before reading, or a non-graphic summary so you can catch up for the next section, please drop a comment and I'll be happy to provide it.

Yuri’s muscles burned with the force of the impact. He’d landed the quad flip – barely – but it was sloppy, one hand skimming the ice. It needed to be better by the end of the off-season. It needed to be _perfect._

He couldn’t shake the nagging fear that his career had already peaked, leaving him struggling to do anything more than stay relevant. After all, where could he go from here? He’d broken a world record at fifteen and taken gold during his senior debut; first at the Grand Prix Final, and again in Worlds. Next year, the Olympics, where he broke his own record in the short program before climbing to the top of the podium.

They called him a hero.

Otabek had chuckled at that – _no._ He wasn’t going to think about Otabek now, not about his laugh, or thumbs up he’d given Yuri when that particular headline broke. He pushed through the step sequence, scoring the ice with vicious strokes. His right leg ached, the burn of old injuries protesting the strain and fatigue.

The ice screeched under his skates. He’d lose points for that in a competition.

When he was seventeen, stumbling along on limbs that were suddenly longer and unable to move right, he took bronze in the European Championships. Nothing else. But it had been okay, even on the sidelines, as he watched his friend cross the ice with gold hanging from his neck.

Yuri loved skating at night, after everyone else had gone home for the day. There was no one to get in his way or shout at him to control his free leg. Even his pathetic quad flip didn’t break his concentration. He was eighteen, and even though he could feel his joints straining against the stretches Lilia put him through each morning. His body was _his_ , and for now, so was the ice.

This year, the world was going to watch him win gold.

The music had stopped sometime in the past few minutes. Yuri hadn’t noticed. It wasn’t the song for his routine, just whatever pounding rhythm kept him on the ice after his knees turned to jelly. He unlocked his phone and cued up another youtube playlist at random – he’d leave in a little bit, so it didn’t really matter what he was listening to.

That was another good thing about the empty rink. No one gave him shit about his music. After Yakov had slipped him the key two years ago, muttering something about extra practice, Yuri had almost cried. He’d left a plate of cookies outside the old man’s door several weeks later. No note, of course. He wasn’t a sap.

 _Technically,_ of course, the conditions had been that he was only allowed to work on footwork unless someone else was in the building. Nothing over a double. No high difficulty spins. And _definitely_ no quads. But what Yakov didn’t know wouldn’t hurt Yuri.

He should get something else for Yakov soon. Maybe after he won the Grand Prix this year.

The speakers crackled. A babble of voices filled the room, fighting to be heard over muted applause.

“Congratulations on your recent victory!”

“Thank you.”

“Tell me, after several years of skating in the senior division, do you feel that you have lived up to your moniker of _‘The Hero of Kazakh-‘”_

Yuri yanked the aux cord from his phone.

Maybe silence was better tonight, after all.

* * *

Viktor pulled his skates from the duffel bag. The rink was still occupied – the hiss and _clack_ of metal blades against ice formed a staccato counterpoint to the music that echoed through the building.

He could wait. For him, the night was yet young, but the rest of St. Petersburg was returning home. The lone skater would surely follow them soon. Most of the lights had already been turned off, leaving only the ice itself illuminated, a stage with no audience, its performer awaiting no applause. Viktor crept through the shadows and settled onto a bench set against the wall. The darkness rendered him virtually invisible to curious eyes, but he could see the skater clearly.

Viktor wasn’t surprised to find that he recognized the young man. Yuri Plisetsky whirled across the ice as if it had personally offended him. His jumps were pure artistry, insults to gravity itself, and Viktor found himself wondering whether the boy would, at some point, fail to come back down to earth and simply remain floating in the air.

The music faded, but Yuri kept skating, abandoning gentle grace for a cruel beauty, his movements harsh and sharp as a knife. It was times like these, free from sharp-eyed judges and a clamoring audience, that one could truly see a skater’s heart, as hard and fragile and cold as the ice.

Yuri stopped dancing. He blinked and shook his head, tossing back the blond hair that had escaped its ties. The boy’s hands and knees were trembling with exhaustion as he skated to the barrier and picked up his phone. _Going home?_ Viktor’s body itched, longing for the rink. Even after so many years, nothing had ever managed to match the sense of home he felt in the training facility set into the heart of St. Petersburg.

Another tune started. Its melody was haunting, mournful, drifting like fog through the quiet night. Yuri’s body followed it, and Viktor’s heart ached in sympathy until the last strains faded away. An interview crackled through the speaker, and Yuri cut it off in disgust before returning to the center of the rink.

Yuri Plisetsky soared across the ice. Viktor gasped. To a casual observer, this jump was as beautiful as the last, but his experienced eyes saw something else. Yuri’s footwork was unstable, legs askew. He would land hard, if he landed it at all. He was too close –

Viktor leapt from his seat, already knowing that he couldn’t stop the events that unfolded before him.

Yuri’s ankle twisted, slamming him into the ground, and the back of his head clipped the cinderblock barrier. Viktor pushed himself faster, the telltale _crack_ of bone replaying itself over and over in his mind. Blood seeped across the ice, staining Yuri’s pale hair crimson where it lay fanned around the prone, crumpled body.

His phone was already in his hand, but Viktor hesitated as he sank to his knees beside the boy. Was there time? Yuri’s chest rose and fell in shallow, spastic gasps. His eyes were wide and black, pupils drowning the sea of green. The figure who had been a blur of motion only moments ago was dying in front of him, his life ebbing away into the ice he loved.

_He’s so young._

Viktor couldn’t watch this happen. He couldn’t _let_ this happen.

The image of a face, at first smooth and young, then lined and weathered formed in his mind. What would Yakov say if he knew Viktor was here, and didn’t do everything in his power to help the boy he’d essentially raised for the last six years?

He ripped off his glove and drew a finger along the skate’s blade in a hard, fast slash. Dark pearls, thick and shining, slowly beaded along the broken skin. Yuri’s breaths had become tight, airless spasms. Dull pain flared across his hand, distant and numbed.

After this, there was no going back – for either of them.

One drop of blood passed the parted lips. Two.

Viktor gently brushed a strand of hair from Yuri’s pale face.

“I’ll see you soon, kid.” 

* * *

The funeral was held in Moscow three days later. Viktor didn’t attend.

He waited on tenterhooks, preparing. It was easier to keep moving, the motion drowning out the questions that swirled through his head. Answers that had seemed precise, clinical, were now frustratingly vague.

Viktor didn’t remember much from his own transformation. The night after the burial was torment, hour after uninterrupted hour of second-guessing as he waited, watching the soft dirt covering the fresh grave. _Several days._ Four? Five? A week? _Ingestion of a small amount of blood shortly before death,_ no doubt written back when ‘death’ was a defined border, instead of categories and gradations.

It felt like an eternity, and eventually, even the _whens_ and _ifs_ became a welcome distraction from the monstrous _how_ that lurked in the shadows. Viktor, whose life – lives – had been selfish and hectic, dictated by the ice and his own fleeting whims, had shouldered a burden he couldn’t even define. Viktor could have renamed every star in the sky, christening it after the doubts and fears that threatened to overwhelm him.

The second night was worse.

Until it wasn’t.

Then, everything got a lot more complicated.

* * *

Yakov opened the door, interrupting the sharp _rap rap rap_ that shook the wood, and peered out with scratchy, reddened eyes. This hallway, in keeping with hotels across the world, tried to hide bland impersonality behind thick carpets and ornate wallpaper that had quickly become grubby and scuffed. It smelled like bleach.

“Nikiforov. I didn’t know you were in town.”

Viktor’s leather shoes were muddy, shedding clumps of drying dirt. He stood in the hallway, clutching a small suitcase and a bundle of blankets topped with a haphazardly folded peacoat. The two men looked at each other. The lines of Yakov’s face had been etched into chasms by grief and pain. Viktor’s smooth face and pale eyes were world-weary.

Neither of them had been young for a very long time.

“Can you…” Viktor nodded at the doorsill. “Please.”

“Right. Come in, Vitya.”

Viktor stepped forward, but then hesitated, tightening his arms around the messy pile of luggage.

“Just come in. It’s late.”

He crossed the threshold. Yakov closed the door.

“You don’t visit much anymore, now that my face looks like an old shoe.”

Viktor chuckled softly.

“Yasha, your face has always looked like an old shoe.”

For a moment, the world seemed a little brighter. Viktor set his luggage on the tiny, uncomfortable couch with surprising gentleness. He spoke again, his voice low and urgent.

“I need your help.”

“This isn’t… this isn’t the best time.”

“I saw it. I was _there._ ”

“You-“

“I was watching when he fell. I didn’t know what to do, Yasha. I still don’t.”

Viktor gently pulled back the crumpled green blanket. Yakov’s knees went loose and he sat down, hard, on the edge of the hard hotel mattress, his indrawn breath a sharp gasp. The world shifted slightly on its axis, leaving the room spinning. Understanding dawned slowly, razor sharp shards of hope tearing through his aching heart. He pushed himself up and reached out, fingers trembling.

Yuri Plisetsky’s pale face was streaked with mud, and he whimpered softly when the fluorescent light hit his closed eyes.

“I didn’t have time to think. I’m sorr-“ Yakov embraced him tightly, cutting off Viktor’s words.

“Fifty years we’ve known each other, and you still manage to surprise me.”

Some of the tension from the past week melted from Viktor’s body. He let his head fall forward, resting one cheek against the older man’s shoulder.

“I’m pretty sure I haven’t surprised you since I was twenty-seven.”

“Nineteen, actually.”

Viktor pouted. “I showed up on your doorstep and told you I was a vampire, and it wasn’t even a little unexpected?”

“Well, maybe a _little.”_ Yakov pulled back. Years had fallen from his face. “What do you need?”

“A place to stay through the day. Some sleep. Someone to keep an eye on Yuri, in case he wakes up – I don’t know how long it’ll be until he’s conscious.”

“I can do that.”

“Then I need to find Nikolai Plisetsky.”

* * *

Flashes of light. Muted whispers, brushing against his ears, their meaning touching and teasing before melting away like snowflakes in spring.

Bolts of agony flickered down his spine, settled in his chest, flickering from white hot to a bone deep chill that sank its sharp nails into his lungs, his heart, his head. The world lurched and shattered into fragments of cruel color. Someone took his hand. The touch was gentle, but dry, callused skin scraped against his palm like sandpaper, leaving fire in its wake. He tried to beg them to stop, to make it all stop, and his dry mouth swallowed the words, a sprinkle of raindrops on desert sand. But maybe some sound had escaped. The hand pulled back, its withdrawal an apology, and Yuri clung to it with all his feeble strength as the familiar scent of soap and hot bread washed over him.

More murmurs rose and fell in the distance.

_“Didn’t you plan at all?”_

_“This was my plan! I didn’t exactly have a manual, Yasha.”_

_“Call me tomorrow. If you and Yura disappear on me…”_

_“Don’t worry.”_

They sounded worried.

A cup was pressed to his lips. He drank, despite the nausea roiling in his stomach, desperate to wash away the choking cotton that coated his tongue. The taste was strange and sweet, not unpleasant, but he gagged and recoiled. Hunger throbbed in his stomach the moment it was taken away.  

Over time – it felt all at once like minutes and years, the soothing monotony broken only by disjointed dreams, but could have just as easily been mere hours – the swirling world began to solidify around him. His childhood bedroom drifted in and out of focus as he clung to lucidity.

Prickles of anxiety worried at the edges of Yuri’s mind, but melted away like mirages under the murky scrutiny of his confused thoughts. _Something_ had happened, or he wouldn’t be lying on an old mattress in his grandfather’s house on the outskirts of Moscow.

He couldn’t find his phone.

“Grandpa, I’m missing practice, I have to- to-“ He had to what? Yuri couldn’t remember. Worry nagged at him.

“Don’t worry, Yurochka. Just rest.” Yuri’s grandfather helped him sit up against the pillows, and steadied Yuri’s hands around yet another warm mug. “You had an accident.”

His gruff voice cracked slightly. Yuri sipped the drink. He still wasn’t sure what it was, though the taste was familiar; his grandpa hadn’t answered when he asked. The room was dark, save for the dim glow of the bedside lamp. Sheets of plywood had been nailed over the narrow, rickety window, only half obscured by shabby yellow curtains. He dozed off again, still holding the empty cup.

When Yuri woke up, his head felt mostly clear of the cobwebs and confusion that had plagued him. The glowing display of an alarm clock, perched on the nightstand beside him, announced that it was ten o’clock at night. He stretched, trying to work out the stiffness in his legs and back, before experimentally rolling his ankles and shoulders.

_An accident._

Yuri’s fingers ghosted across his body, checking for bumps or bruises under the thin fabric of his pajamas. Muscles protested, residual soreness tightening his joints, but there didn’t seem to be any injury. Even the deep ache in his chest was more of the memory of pain than actual discomfort.

Bare feet hit the cold wooden floor, and Yuri almost fell as a wave of dizziness swept over him. _A concussion, maybe?_ He stumbled to the door and leaned heavily against the frame.

By he time he reached the bottom of the stairs, he didn’t need to brace himself against the wall for balance.

The kitchen was the same as it had always been: a sturdy oak table with three matching chairs rested on the linoleum floor, surrounded by white cabinets and cooking supplies. Everything was well-worn, but clean – Nikolai Plisetsky had obviously not remodeled any part of the house since the Soviet Union fell, but he regarded any patch of dirt as a personal affront.

It felt like home.

Yuri rummaged through the cabinets. He was tired of lying in bed being spoon-fed weird soup. He wanted _food._ The old gas stove received a quick glance of consideration, but Yuri had never grown used to the _pop-WHOOSH_ of ignition and sudden rush of flames. He’d had nightmares about it, as a child, until his grandfather had taken him by the hand and shown him the tiny pilot light and delicate gas lines hidden under the scarred iron surface.

Half a loaf of bread lay on an ancient wooden cutting board. Yuri carved off a slice and stuffed it into the toaster with some difficulty, hoping it didn’t burn. He’d cut it a bit too thick. Plates were in the same place they’d always been. A dish of butter was already out. The toast popped up, one corner a little charred, but still edible. Yuri plopped it on the table and turned to the fridge, hoping for jam, and came up with a half empty jar of raspberry preserves.

A newspaper stuck out of the recycling bin, half buried under empty beer cans and a stack of magazines. Yuri’s empty hands itched, missing the instant connection and information of his cell phone, and he tugged the paper free.

* * *

“What the _fuck_ kind of sick joke is this?” Yuri spat the words at Viktor, eyes flashing, slender fingers tearing through the fragile sheets he clutched.

Viktor stood in the entrance to the tiny kitchen, frozen. He had heard the boy wake up and make his way downstairs, and decided that now might be the best time for them to talk. Apparently, it was a bit late for the conversation he had planned.

Yuri slammed the newspaper onto the table, revealing the headline emblazoned across the front page. A large photo was printed below; Yuri, smirking at the camera, holding - brandishing - a gold medal.

 

**Russia Mourns Legendary Figure Skater Yuri Plisetsky**

            Viktor lifted his hands, palms out, hoping to calm Yuri down. This wasn’t how he should find out. This wasn’t how anyone should find out. It didn’t work.

            “What did you do? Where is my grandfather?” His voice was a low, threatening hiss, green eyes fever-bright. Yuri stalked towards Viktor. His movements were lithe and predatory, every inch the promise from a hunter to its prey.

            “He’s in the living room. He’s been taking care of you for the past couple of days. Let me tell him you’re awake, he can help explain-“

            The strike was lightning and thunder. Viktor gripped the bony fist as the boy twisted and writhed. It was a good thing Yuri was still relatively weak, unused to the changes that had ripped through his body over the past week. Nevertheless, Viktor’s cheek stung.

            “Your grandfather should probably be a part of this conversation.”

            He released his grip on Yuri’s arm. The blond rubbed his wrist, but didn’t swing at him again. His face was stone.

“No. You did this, shithead. I know you did. I want to hear it from _you_. Now.”

Viktor nodded, and slowly lowered himself into a chair at the scarred wooden table.

“Yuri, do you know who I am?”

The first answer he received was a blink of confusion, rapidly covered by a sneer.

“Of course. I’m dead, apparently, but not stupid.” Yuri let himself drop into the other seat and folded his arms across his chest. “You’re Yakov’s friend, that old student who choreographed my senior debut.”

_Old student, huh. So that’s what you told him._

“Do you remember what happened?” Viktor’s voice was soft, for his own sake as much as it was an attempt to keep Yuri from lunging across the table. Again. Yuri didn’t move a muscle as Viktor continued, “I was visiting St. Petersburg. The night I arrived, I went to the rink, late – Yakov gave me a key years ago so I could skate after everyone else went home.

“You were still there. I decided to wait until you left.” He didn’t let any emotion trickle into the words. “You fell. An ambulance wouldn’t get there in time.”

“I… fell,” murmured Yuri, running his hands through his hair, tracing the curve of his skull. Viktor could tell that the kid believed him, even if he didn’t want to. “How bad?”

“Bad.” Viktor inhaled deeply. The air wouldn’t do anything to steady his resolve – he didn’t need to breathe, after all – but it bought him a moment. He repeated what Yakov had told him late that night, as his old friend had fought back tears of relief and shock.

“Broken C3 vertebrae. Depressed basilar skull fracture. Respiratory arrest and neurogenic shock.”

“That’s… you’re _lying._ I’d be dead.”

“Yuri.”

“Shut _up!”_

“Yuri, listen to me.”

Yuri’s fingernails dug into the edge of the table.

“I’m not one of Yakov’s old students. We trained together, when we were young.”

The boy’s laugh was a harsh bark. “You want me to believe that I have a broken neck and you’re seventy years old?”

Viktor was careful not to move suddenly. He stood up, walking around to where Yuri sat, and extended his hand.

“I want to show you something.”

“Creep.” Still, Yuri didn’t jerk his hand away as his fingers were pressed to the inside of Viktor’s wrist. His eyes widened. “What the fuck?”

There was no pulse beating underneath the cold skin. Viktor pulled Yuri’s other hand from the table, positioning the boy’s own wrist under his tensed fingers. He watched carefully, expecting the teenager to try to punch him again.

Instead, Yuri closed his eyes, tilting his head to rest against the back of the chair. Tears beaded along his bottom lashes, but he didn’t let them fall.

“I’m a vampire, Yuri. And so are you.”

* * *

His grandfather rubbed gentle circles across Yuri’s shoulders. Yuri tried to sink deeper into the worn couch cushions, wanting nothing more than to pull the heavy pile of quilts over his head and sleep until his life – inasmuch as it was now – made sense again.

“Take me back.”

“What?” Viktor blinked owlishly at him.

“Back to St. Petersburg. I’ll say it was a misunderstanding. That I don’t remember the last week. Or it was some stupid publicity stunt that went wrong.” Yuri knew he sounded desperate, childish. He didn’t care.

“Yuri, there was a funeral.”

“Fine! I’ll tell them I’m a vampire then! What are they gonna do, stake me?” He was shouting now, and for the first time, Viktor raised his voice too.

“This isn’t just about you! The world is changing, and _maybe_ the government wouldn’t immediately lock you up, but what about everyone else? Thousands of people who have been living for years, slipping under the radar because no one is looking for them. Then suddenly, some famous kid has to tell the whole planet that he’s a vampire. How is that going to go over? Here’s a hint: torches and pitchforks. People would _die.”_

Nikolai ruffled Yuri’s long blond hair, just like when Yuri fell ill as a child and had to stay home from school or training. His eyes burned.

 _“_ Then how am I supposed to _skate?”_

Viktor looked away, gazing at the window as if he could see through the drawn curtains and onto the quiet street.

“You can still skate.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Competing wouldn’t be fun anymore. No human would stand a chance.”

“They didn’t stand a chance anyway!” _I was going to win this year._

“Winning gets boring after a while.”

“I’m not bored yet.” A tear escaped from the corner of his eye. _Fuck._ His body was still betraying him, like it had for years: growing, stiffening, _falling,_ and now he was going to sob like a baby. It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

He was supposed to skate onto the ice, sweep every gold, maybe break a couple of records in the process, and everyone (one person in particular, but he wouldn’t admit that yet, even to himself) would see him atop the podium.

His grandfather patted Yuri’s arm through the pile of blankets – and that was another thing, the chill he couldn’t escape that had grown inside him like a tumor and he couldn’t chase it away, the quilts weren’t doing shit because they only kept what warmth you already had and every inch of him was clammy and cold and _dead,_ but he clung to the comforting weight and familiar scent of home and pretended that his blood didn’t feel like ice.

“Yurochka, I want you to stay with Mr. Nikiforov in Berlin for a while,” said Nikolai, breaking his silence for the first time. His grandpa’s eyes were red-rimmed, underlined with the dark circles and deep lines of stress and exhaustion. Yuri didn’t want to think about what the last few days had been like for the old man. Guilt roiled in his stomach, acrid and nauseating. This was all his _fucking_ fault… He hadn’t spared a thought for anyone else – outside of this house, Yuri was nothing except what he could do on the ice. They wouldn’t miss him, excepting a few tears from dedicated (creepy) fans and some mawkish, insincere interviews from other skaters.

“Okay.”

“All of Russia loves you, and will remember your face. It’s not- it’s not safe for you here.”

“Fine.” Yuri didn’t care what happened next. He’d never skate again, not really, not with the heart-pounding rush of adrenaline and competition, clawing his way to the top with bloody fingernails and bruised feet.

Viktor seemed taken aback. Maybe he was expecting Yuri to punch him again.

“We’ll get you a new phone in a few days, of course-“

_Yeah, that’d get a lot of use._

“- and if there’s anything you need to do before we leave Russia, let me know.”

Yuri considered that. Nothing seemed to matter much, except-

“I’m bringing my cat.” If Viktor refused, he really would get punched again.

“Of course.”

Yuri’s life suddenly seemed slightly less awful. Not good, but… less bad. Viktor kept talking. Yuri was beginning to get a feel for the man’s ( _vampire’s)_ personality, which was cheerful and scatterbrained and really fucking annoying.

“- but, if there’s anything _else_ you can think of, I’ll do my best. You can’t go public, of course, but if there’s anyone you’re close to, I think Yakov mentioned a friend at the rink..?”

Yuri’s fists clenched, nails digging into his palms. _Not a friend. Not at the rink. Not anything, anymore._ He remembered the countless messages. The screaming voicemails that turned into pleading that turned into soft whispers of _I miss you, Beka, I wish you'd just talk to me._ Idly, he wondered if Otabek had bothered to attend his funeral.

         “No. I don’t have any friends.”


	7. Chapter 7

“Yeah, I was thinking to visit in January, before the days get too long – yes, of course. I love you too. Пока.”

         Yuri hung up the phone – not _his_ phone, which was lying on the desk across the room, utterly and definitively dead, but the upstairs landline, god knows why Viktor even kept paying for the thing – feeling infinitely better. He couldn’t help but wonder if his grandpa had some sort of supernatural thing going for him, because no normal person would be happy to get a call from their hiccupping vampire grandson in the middle of the night.

         He barged across the landing and pounded on the other bedroom door.  
         “Viktor! Oi, Viktor!” No response. Viktor was pretending not to hear him, but Yuri _knew_ he was in there, sulking. “Your damn dinner party is over, so now would you deal with the stray werewolf already?”

         Incoherent grumbling drifted through the door. Yuri yanked it open, letting the knob slam against the wall.

         Viktor, still in his dress clothes, lay facedown on his king size bed. He moaned gently at the sudden noise. A flash of fear leapt up Yuri’s spine.

         “Hey, Viktor?” He nudged the red-clad shoulder.

         Viktor rolled over, his face anguished.

         “I looked like a fool, Yurio.”

         _Oh, god._

“He was toying with me.” Viktor let himself fall backwards across the pillows, his hair fanning out in a silver curtain.

         “He was- what?” A brief mental scramble, and he remembered that Viktor was a world class moron who needed to be suitably punished for putting Yuri through multiple levels of hell over the past day and a half. “I thought you said he didn’t know anything!”

         Holding back laughter at the thought of Yuuri the Usurper (why couldn’t _he_ be Yurio, huh?) as a fearsome vampire slayer was a torment all of its own.

         The only reply was a deep and completely unnecessary sigh.

         “Oh, who cares about that? He thought I was an idiot! A useless idiot! I told him I could help, and now he’s never going to want to see me again.”

         Well, he wasn’t wrong. _Insufferable asshat._ Any traces of guilt Yuri had about fucking with the two hopeless imbeciles had vanished into thin air.

         “That’s a good thing, isn’t it? The hunter leaves us alone and gets himself killed in a few nights when he asks the wrong person the wrong question. Works out for everyone.”

         Viktor flinched visibly. If his skin hadn’t already been chalk-pale, the blood would have drained from his cheeks.

         “Right, right. Of course.” He put one finger to his chin, deep in thought. “Perhaps I should keep an eye on him. Just to make sure he doesn’t suspect us.”

         Good lord, Viktor was a terrible liar.

         This was going to be even more fun than Yuri had hoped, but if he had to deal with another second of melodramatic moping, he was going to stake both of them himself. The _other_ situation rose once again to the forefront of his mind.

         “Great, good idea. You do that. Now, the werewolf thing?”

         “Okay, okay. After I take a shower. And get something to eat.”

         _Oh, for the love of -_

         “It’s almost three o’clock already! You don’t have time to go hunting!”

         Viktor waved one limp hand. “Don’t worry, I’ll choke down some of whatever’s in the fridge. Why don’t you let Mr. Altin know that we’re going out for a while? _All_ of us.”

         Going out? Yuri gave a mental shrug as he stomped down the stairs. Maybe they were going to drive Otabek to the airport and tell him to get the hell out of Germany. It really didn’t matter to him, as long as Otabek was gone. What gave him the right to show up, accuse Yuri of being a body-snatching murder demon – or whatever the fuck he was on about – and try to eat him in some screwed up quest for vengeance? Really, it was Yuri who should be asking if Otabek was some alien meatpuppet, because he hadn’t cared enough about Yuri two and a half years ago to even pick up his damn phone.

         _Yuri Plisetsky never fell._

         The syllables echoed through his mind, cutting deeper with each repetition. No wonder Otabek didn’t believe he was himself, if that was the Yuri he remembered.

         He pounded on the basement door, taking pleasure in the thought of showering its denizen with spiders (even though he knew for a fact that there were no spiders, and the basement was more of an en-suite apartment than a bare cellar).

         “Oi! We’re leaving. Bring your stuff.”

         Footsteps padded up the carpeted steps. A deadbolt slid back, and Otabek pulled open the door. Yuri’s stomach lurched again, because _fuck,_ apparently even the lump of calcified anger buried in his chest wasn’t enough to keep the rest of his traitorous emotions in check. The werewolf didn’t seem to be having the same problem. His eyes were dark and cold, without a flicker of expression.

* * *

**VN:** Hello, Yuuri. Did you make it home without problems?

 **KY:** oh yes thank you

 **KY** : i took the wrong train but it worked out ok

 **VN:** How is your research? Have you talked to anyone interesting?

 **KY:** phichit went out for a while but didnt find much

 **KY:** hes getting food and then were going to try again

 **KY:** what about you? any plans for the night?

 **VN:** I am going out for a while with my brother and his friend. What part of the city did you say you would be in?

 **KY:** that sounds like fun

 **KY:** i guess youre all night people then

 **KY:** yurio seems like a good kid

 **KY:** and we havent actually decided where to go

 **KY:** phichit says mitte tonight maybe

 **VN:** Wow, I wasn’t aware that Yurio had managed to make such a good impression. He doesn’t get along with people very well most of the time. I think he likes you, though. Mitte? That can be a dangerous part of town after dark. Stay safe.

 **KY:** really?

 **KY** : i thought that was where a lot of tourists went

 **VN:** You know how cities are. If you don’t have firm plans, maybe you and your friend would like to join us? I know it’s only been a couple of hours, but I am very interested in meeting your Phichit.

 **KY:** he says that would be good

 **KY:** are you sure though

 **KY:** we dont want to intrude

 **VN:** The more the merrier!

 **VN:** _Attachment: 1 location  
_ [tap to open with Google Maps]

 **KY:** its open this late??

 **VN:** I’m friends with the owner. She understands that my schedule is a little inconvenient, due to work and all.

 **KY:** okay yeah

 **KY:** you are officially phichits new favorite person

 **VN:** See you in two hours?

 **KY:** its a date J

* * *

       “Oh my god. I can’t believe I said that.”

         “Don’t worry about it, Yuuri. It’s a perfectly normal English phrase.”

         “… no, I’m pretty sure it’s not.”

         “It’s an almost normal English phrase.”

         “Just kill me now.”

         “Maybe afterwards. I’m pretty sure you being dead would void my invitation, and I’m not missing this.”

         “Some friend you are.”

* * *

       Otabek stood a couple of steps down, trying to control his breathing. _Cornered._ He told himself that the house’s residents had never actually threatened him – he himself had been the only one doing the threatening. It didn’t help. Otabek had the lower ground, standing on a stair a good twenty centimeters below the blond’s position. His instincts screamed, protesting the vulnerability.

         He didn’t allow himself to move a muscle, forcing his eyes to remain steady as he looked up. It wasn’t even the wolf in him that was upset, which was both a blessing and a curse; no, the wolf wasn’t scared. It wouldn’t let him slam the door and lock it again. It was the Otabek part of him that was a problem, come down from the rush of confusion and adrenaline and anger that had propelled him through the last twenty-four hours.

         “Are you deaf? We’re going.” The boy seemed angered by Otabek’s lack of response.

         “Where?”

         _Shrug._ “Ask Viktor.” He moved back from the door, allowing Otabek to step up and out into the hall. The clamoring in his chest immediately eased to a tolerable level once he was no longer trapped in the stairwell, leaving him exhausted and just a little guilty. He _probably_ hadn’t been in any danger, and even under the circumstances, his behavior was a dreadful abuse of hospitality. This wasn’t St. Petersberg, not by a long shot… but it wasn’t Malmö, either.

         _Jagged stones digging into his back as he tried to edge away from the broken figure creeping up on him, its face streaked with dirt and gore, eyes empty -_

         He pushed away the rising flood of memories, locking them away into darkness once again.

         “What-“ _What should I call you?_ If Otabek wanted answers, he probably had to try a less abrasive method, and that included a name. ‘Yuri’ was out of the question, of course.

         Not-Yuri cut him off.

         “What am I?” He snorted. “A creature from the depths of hell summoned to torment you, specifically. Got the body half price on Amazon. Why are you a werewolf?”

         That was not something Otabek wanted to talk about. Especially with something that taunted him from behind an achingly familiar face. His (metaphorical) hackles raised.

         “My landlord wouldn’t let me get a cat.”

         Not-Yuri’s expression twisted. He looked vaguely pained.

         _Great job, Otabek. Wonderful work. Handled that one like a champ. Obviously he’ll tell me everything now._ Maybe it wasn’t too late to retreat to the basement again.

         However, in a stroke of luck (his definition of ‘luck’ had certainly changed over the past day and a half), he was saved from the conversation when Viktor skipped – yes, actually skipped – up to join them.

         “Great! You two are ready!” Viktor was hauling a large duffel bag. That wasn’t ominous at all. He pulled something thin and sleek from his jacket pocket. “Yurio, catch!”

         The blond – _Yurio,_ that would work – snatched it from the air. A cell phone.

         “You couldn’t have told me this got here _before_ the hell dinner?” His voice was softer than than the sharp question would normally have called for. It sounded like a thank you.

         Viktor smiled back and picked his car keys off of a hook on the wall.

         _Yurio._ He could live with that.

* * *

  Viktor settled himself into the driver’s seat. Getting a license hadn’t been easy, what with vampires not known for being photogenic, but it was worth it (even if it wasn’t technically a license, or technically legal). No one wanted to trust their life to public transport.

         Yuri and Otabek didn’t get in the car. Instead, they stood on the gravel, still as statues.

         “I don’t want _him_ behind me,” Yuri hissed, glaring daggers at the other man. “I want him where I can see him.”

         Otabek’s shoulders were set in a hard line. Viktor could see that his hands were shaking slightly.

         Five minutes later, they weren’t scowling at each other anymore. In the rearview mirror, he could see that the werewolf was jammed against the side of the car, taking up as little space as possible. His face was staunchly turned towards the window, for all appearances completely engrossed in the night scenery (if one didn’t notice the set of his jaw, or the tightness around his eyes). Yuri, of course, didn’t show up in the mirror, but he didn’t need to turn around to confirm that the younger vampire was sprawled across the back seat, glowering at Viktor.

         He wondered, again, if he was doing the right thing. For most of his life, Viktor had managed to avoid thinking too much about _rights_ and _wrongs_ and _shoulds._ Things just… happened. He hadn’t thought of responsibility as exciting, but since that night in St. Petersberg, life had definitely become more interesting – and, of course, infinitely more frustrating.

         Viktor switched on the radio, flipping through stations until American pop music blared through the speakers. A pair of green eyes burned into the back of his head. The car traced a familiar route. Wind whipped through the vehicle as he rolled down the windows, hiding smug satisfaction as Yuri yelped, trying to push his long blond hair out of his face.

         Unfortunately, the distraction didn’t work for very long.

         “Viktor. Where are we going?” Creeping suspicion filled Yuri’s voice.

         Viktor winced.


	8. Chapter 8

They tumbled out of the car in silence.

         For the moment, Otabek was more intimidated by the large, low-slung building than the two shadowy figures striding along in front of him.

         In the past two and a half years, he hadn’t stepped onto the ice more than a handful of times. Those stolen moments, blades of his borrowed skates catching on patches of roughness marring the windblown surface of frozen lakes, were treasures he kept buried within himself, deep enough to blunt the memories, sharp as razors.

         A rink was a relic from his previous life, one of the many things he tried not to grasp, knowing that the flames of longing would leave him with nothing more than burnt fingers.

         “I can’t believe this is your idea of _dealing with things._ ” Yurio was sulking, letting his lanky frame slouch against the concrete wall as Viktor fiddled with the stiff lock.

         “We’ve all spent too much time cooped up in the house,” Viktor chirped. “This is the perfect way to relax!”

         Yurio huffed. Evidently, he didn’t have too much faith in the other man’s mental capabilities. Otabek, however, wasn’t too sure – those pale blue eyes had seen him for who he was almost instantly, leaving him reeling and exposed.

         They entered the darkened lobby. Otabek peered into the shadows, unable to make out much in the dim red light that fell from an emergency exit sign. Viktor shuffled up beside him, intentionally making noise to avoid startling Otabek.

         “You can borrow a pair of skates from the rack – don’t worry, I have an arrangement with the owner.” He paused. “How’s your night vision, Altin?”

         Otabek considered lying – _don’t reveal your weaknesses_ wasn’t the first hard lesson he’d learned, though it was close – but the alternative was stumbling around like a child, probably falling flat on his face.

         “Better than average. Not the best, in this form.”

         A soft _click_ echoed off the tiled floor, and fluorescent light flooded the room. The two men were alone in the lobby, but a muffled curse pinpointed Yurio’s position when Viktor flipped the master switch.

         “Maybe a little warning before you blind me next time?!” The shout was from the next room – the rink, he assumed.

         “Sorry, Yuri!” Viktor turned back to Otabek. “Yurio and I don’t usually bother with the lights when we’re here.”

         Ten minutes later, Otabek was pulling on the skates he’d found on the rental rack. The black leather was stiff and too soft all at once, broken in by too many feet over too many years to truly fit anyone. The heel dug into his skin.

         It felt wonderful.

         He didn’t pause to warm up before stepping onto the ice – injuries were no longer more than a brief inconvenience. The chilly air swirling around his ankles felt like a dream that would be snatched away at any moment, the soft _hiss_ of blades soothing as a lullaby. For the time being, it didn’t matter that he hadn’t slept in nearly two days. The denim of his jeans was worn and pliable, molding itself around his movements. It almost didn’t matter who else was in the rink, or why Viktor seemed to be so intent on pushing Otabek and Yurio towards each other.

         Yurio wasn’t skating yet. Otabek wondered if he knew how, whether a few memories had somehow carried over. Yurio wasn’t like Yuri; he was cold, where Yuri had been fire. The biting comments were calculated to land with pinpoint accuracy and an acid sting, to _hurt,_ instead of internal explosions with no regard for casualties. He hadn’t mentioned anything from the past, no information that couldn’t be found with a simple google search. But he knew Otabek’s name – he knew _Yuri’s_ name for Otabek.

         _Beka, it’s me -_

         Otabek threw himself into a jump, testing the waters. The simple toe loop felt like flying. From the corner of his eye, he saw Viktor leaning against the barrier, smiling at his phone. _Scratch spin,_ and there was Yurio, sinking liquidly into an oversplit with one foot propped on a bench. His green eyes were slits against the electric glare.

         After a few lazy loops around the ice, he found himself tracing out the paths of an old routine. Otabek didn’t know which one, not yet, but he could almost hear the strains of music seeping through the years.

         _credam dabo, sperabo_

A sit spin – it should have been entered from a jump, but broken ankles hurt even with supernatural healing powers. The half remembered step sequence was clumsy and awkward, and Otabek still couldn’t figure out when he’d learned the choreography.

         _et denique aperiens fores occultas_

He was still absentmindedly puzzling over it, trying to tease the fragile strands of time out of the knots and tangles of the past, when the quadruple Salchow caught him off guard. Otabek hung in the air for a moment, bracing himself for a painful tumble. It never came. Instead, the back outside edge of his skate met the ice, steady as stone, and followed with a triple toe loop. Finally, Otabek’s thoughts caught up with his body, and this time he did crash to the ground.

         _Ah! Audio voceum tuam!_

He pulled himself to his knees, struggling to fill his lungs, and limped to the edge of the rink. Otabek’s hip ached, but that would fade in a few minutes. His pride was another matter – he couldn’t believe he’d been careless enough to try a quad-triple jump combination, after two and a half years off the ice, without even warming up.

         Viktor was still holding his phone, but his eyes were on Otabek.

         _mea vita amabit_

He knew where he’d learned that routine, and it turned out that the pain of remembering was nothing compared to the agony of forgetting.

         “Well now. _That_ wasn’t what I expected you to skate, I have to admit,” said Viktor.

         Otabek met his eyes. “You know it?”

         “I _created_ it.” Viktor didn’t smirk, exactly, but his pride was evident. “Five years ago, for Yakov’s stubborn little prodigy.”

         _“One week, Beka. You learn any one of my programs, and I’ll do yours. Winner buys lunch.”_

“You weren’t credited for the program,” said Otabek, eyebrow quirked – not in disbelief, exactly, but pieces of this particular puzzle were falling into place too conveniently. It made him nervous.

         “Of course not. My name would have caused quite a stir. I _am_ Viktor Nikiforov, after all.” He flipped his silver hair and grinned at Otabek (who tried very hard not to stare at his teeth, with moderate success).

         “Sorry?” The name meant nothing to him.

         Viktor’s face fell. He pouted, allowing his slim body to slump against the wall, the very picture of anguish.

         “You don’t...”

         “Uh, no.” Otabek shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t think so.”

         “Oh.”

         “How-“

         Viktor hushed Otabek, lifting his finger to his lips the same way he had the previous morning. The sulk fell away from his face, replaced by a gentle smile. His blue eyes crinkled slightly at the edges; it was the first _real_ smile Otabek had seen from the man, he realized. Viktor tipped his head towards the rink. Otabek turned.

         Yurio had finished stretching, and all lingering questions about whether he could skate dissipated like smoke. If Otabek had been asked ten minutes ago, he would have said he expected Yurio to move like a hurricane over the ice, an unstoppable force that left destruction in his wake. He wouldn’t have been entirely wrong, either – the whirling figure could have moved mountains. However, no wreckage trailed behind the blades, which seemed to barely skim the surface of the rink.

         A toe loop. Otabek gaped.

         “Was that–“

         “Five revolutions, yes. A little overrotated.” Despite the critique – the _critique,_ of a quintuple jump - Viktor seemed proud.

         The step sequence was miles away from Otabek’s hesitant, fumbling movements, even as they slid seamlessly into the sequence after his fall. Every gesture was perfectly precise, the familiarity sinking into his chest like thorns, only to be torn away the next moment. _Agape_ had always seemed bittersweet, but the euphoria that had shone through had been replaced by jagged emptiness, rendering the dance a sorrowful cry.

         No – not a cry, but a question. A demand.

         _Look at me._

         Yurio spun, his back folded almost double as he finished the Biellmann.

         Otabek wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn’t tear himself away.

         The routine ended, but Yurio didn’t stop skating; now he was a horrifyingly beautiful blur of motion, a natural disaster that threatened to level cities and reform the surface of the earth like clay under an expert’s hand, carving mountains into oceans.

         “He still scares you,” murmured Viktor thoughtfully.

         Otabek grunted. It didn’t seem to be a question, and even if it had been, stating the obvious had always felt like a waste of breath.

         “But I don’t.” The short syllables were a punch to the gut, forcing a huff of air through his lips. It was true; Viktor had effortlessly pinned Otabek to the cobbled street, leaving him bruised and bloodied, pulled out his secrets with surgical precision, and then not-so-subtly threatened his life while the pieces of his soul lay on the bare wooden table between the mugs of coffee.

         Viktor didn’t scare Otabek. Confused him, yes, and surprised him. Intimidated, certainly. But the older man’s presence had never brought the creeping, smothering distress that filled his lungs whenever he met Yurio’s clear green gaze. It should have – they were two of a kind, the same languid grace filling their steps, the same cold skin, the same unnerving silence in their chests, but…

         “I never knew you, before.”

         The answer - vague though it was - seemed to please Viktor, who ran a hand through his silvery hair.

         “You were staying in the city, yes?” They were both still watching Yurio, but Otabek felt the searching glance brush across his skin. “With a friend?”

         “Renting.”

         “Cancel it.”

         “What?” Otabek gulped. Was Viktor telling him to get out of Berlin, or…

         “Obviously, you’re not going to leave until you have whatever answers you want. Which, we both know, you’re not going to find in Charlottenburg or the Pergamon Museum, so renting a place in town is a waste of money.”

         “I have money.” _I’m not leaving._

“I get the feeling you haven’t stayed in one place for very long. That makes it difficult to hold a job.”

         His ears burned slightly. That, too, was true; without his skating sponsorships, he had been living on savings and whatever funds he could scrape up between moves.

         “You could just tell me, and I’ll get out of your hair.” The wolf, locked away in the back of his head, whined gently. He ignored it. Viktor tilted his head, finally looking directly at Otabek.

         “Would you believe me?”

         Otabek couldn’t answer.

         “How much do you know?”

         The blush deepened, frustration coloring his cheeks. The golden tone of his skin – now pale from too many weeks without sunlight - had never done much to hide his emotions.

         “Not enough.”

         “Ah.” A flash of something _,_ understanding and sympathy and _anger,_ crossed Viktor’s pale face. “I see.”

         “I didn’t… I wasn’t even sure what I was, until you said it.”

         “The one that bit you, they didn’t…”

         No one would have found any humor in his sharp, sudden laugh. Viktor gently laid his hand on Otabek’s elbow; he was too surprised to pull away from the touch.

         “The guest room is yours for as long as you want it. Please.”

         _Oh._

He didn’t know how much time passed – mere seconds, or minutes, or even hours - while he stood, frozen, on the side of the rink. The emotion washing through him was unfamiliar, prickling against his skin, and it took Otabek a moment to identify it: _gratitude._ He opened his mouth to reply, not knowing what words would fall from his lips, when movement in the corner of his eye pulled him away.

         The edge of Yurio’s skate struck the ice at an angle. The inhuman momentum of his slim body threw him sideways, his leg splayed to the side.

         Otabek was halfway across the rink before Yurio hit the ice, the impact silent save for the surprisingly soft _smack_ of his outstretched hand thumping the slick ground in a belated attempt to break his own fall.

_Yuri stumbling in practice, toppling to the floor in slow motion, before rising again with a curse and a new determination in his narrowed eyes._

         Otabek dropped to his knees, hands finding the soft fabric of Yurio’s black leggings. Yurio grimaced slightly at the touch, looking uncharacteristically vulnerable in the ungainly sprawl.

         _Falling out of his Salchow in competition, leaving Otabek to claim the gold medal._

         “Don’t move.” His fingers gingerly traveled across the prone knee and ankle, feeling for breaks or swelling along the limb.

         _Helping his friend off the ice as Yuri favored his sore ankle._

         He couldn’t feel any injury. Yurio was flexing his wrist, sitting up on the ice. Otabek jumped back as if burned and climbed to his feet, expecting the boy to lash out at him. Instead, Yurio’s face twisted strangely.

         “I’m fine.” Otabek extended his hand. Yurio took it, pulling himself to his feet. He turned away, tugging his arm free.

         _This isn’t Malmö._

         “Wait.” Otabek released his grasp on the slender fingers, steeling himself. “I owe you an apology.”

         Yurio didn’t say anything, but he stopped, head tilted over his shoulder. His profile was excruciatingly sharp, framed by the bluish lighting overhead.

         “Yuri Plisetsky fell. I didn’t… I didn’t want to remember. I’m sorry for what I said before.” The admission tore at his throat. It felt like he was letting Yuri die again, the memory of his friend fading out as the stranger in front of him listened.

         _I let myself forget that he wasn’t perfect._

         He had let himself forget a lot of things over the past two and a half years. Now he had another item to add to the list, as Yurio skated away without another word. Because, despite himself, Otabek liked Yurio, enjoyed his quick wit and acrid tongue.

         It felt like a betrayal.


	9. Chapter 9

         “I’m going to fall flat on my face,” whimpered Yuuri. He looked vaguely ill, and the greenish cast to his skin contrasted nicely with his warm brown eyes, which were brimming with horror.

         “Yuuri, babe, you’re a professional dancer-“

         “A retired dancer.”

         “A _highly experienced_ dancer who could bring mere mortals to their knees by falling over.”

         Phichit smiled as Yuuri let out a soft laugh – slightly strangled, but a laugh nonetheless. After a year of friendship during their studies at Waseda University’s social sciences graduate program, he had grown used to his friend’s anxious moods.

         “Viktor said his brother and his brother’s friend would be here too, right?” Phichit wasn’t exactly calm himself, but his own case of nerves bubbled through his body, leaving him breathless and burning with energy. He clutched the bag that contained his skates with trembling hands. He was on the brink of finally entering a world that had consumed his thoughts from the moment he learned of its existence. Out of the two of them, Yuuri was probably handling this better, if all he was worried about was remembering how to ice skate (of course, it was his second encounter with the supernatural that night).

         “Mhmm. Yurio- _Yuri_ is, uh, like Viktor. I don’t know his friend.”

         “Right, right. You said he was there earlier.”

         “Just so you know, Yurio can be a little… prickly.” That was a step up from Yuuri’s earlier response, which had been a frantic text message that read ‘ _im about to get murdered by a teenager (not literally) help.’_

“I knew a Yuri like that once,” murmured Phichit, and Yuuri wrapped an arm around his shoulders, noticing the uncharacteristic traces of sadness in his voice.

         “The one..?”

         “Yeah. I wish I’d had a chance to talk with him more. He seemed like an interesting kid.”

         They walked in silence for a couple of minutes.

         “This is the place, right?” A large, slightly dingy sign adorned the front of the building, which looked like an old warehouse to the untutored eye. _Eisstadion._ The front door swung open as they walked up, and Phichit caught sight of the tall man he’d seen leaving the bar the night before.

         Any remaining doubts about whether this was for real, if Yuuri had been mistaken in his earlier analysis, dissipated like smoke. Viktor Nikiforov (exactly _why_ did that name sound so familiar?) was eerily still as he stood in the doorway, none of the static of life blurring the outlines of his form. His skin was ivory, almost translucent, the lack of undertones shading his face into a portrait in monochrome.

         Viktor’s face lit up when he caught sight of them – well, actually, when he caught sight of Yuuri. Phichit received a welcoming (though close-lipped) smile and a firm handshake.

         “It’s nice to meet you, Phichit..?”

         “Chulanont. Likewise, Mr. Nikiforov.”

         “Oh, please, call me Viktor,” he said with a chuckle, his eyes fixed on Yuuri once again. “I look forward to hearing about the progress you’ve made, but let’s find you some skates first.”

         Phichit might have minded being the third wheel to a very unprofessional research arrangement, if he hadn’t noticed the flush that darkened the tips of his friend’s ears, so instead of commenting, he just raised his gear bag.

         “I have my own, actually. Why don’t you, uh, help Yuuri, and I’ll start warming up?” There wasn’t an ounce of shyness in Phichit’s entire being, but it didn’t seem like the right time to add _I was a world-class competitive figure skater until last year, you lovebirds just go do your thing._

         It was also clear that Viktor didn’t actually invite them over to talk about research, so Phichit ignored his ever-growing curiosity and pushed through the second set of doors that led from the lobby to the rink itself. It was almost empty, aside from two people skating on opposite ends of the room. Phichit tugged on his skates, watching glittering flakes fly as the nearest figure completed an exquisite combination spin, long blond hair fanning out as their lanky, androgynous form almost skimmed the ice. Viktor’s brother, he assumed.

         Phichit stepped onto the ice. His muscles were still stiff and aching from the long flight to Germany, and the recent nocturnal schedule hadn’t allowed him to skate since arriving in Europe. His hip voiced its complaints as Phichit made his way over to introduce himself to Yuri. The young man – he looked like a teenager, but who could tell – was now standing motionless, back to Phichit, but pivoted neatly as he approached.

         Standing in front of him, wearing black leggings, a long (and tacky) t-shirt emblazoned with a roaring lion, and a scowl, was Yuri Plisetsky.

         Yuri was about five shades paler than Phichit remembered. His hair was longer, falling just past his shoulders. Most shockingly of all, he wasn’t dead. Or rather…

         Phichit’s jaw dropped. He squeaked. Yuri’s eyes widened.

         “Oh my goodness. Yuri, you’re a-“

         His shout, however, was cut off as a hand was clapped over his mouth, the wiry strength stifling the words.

         “Not here, okay?” His voice was flat and low, the Russian accent a bit thicker than it had been when they’d last met. “I’ll explain later.”

         Phichit nodded, struggling to contain his shocked, jubilant laughter when Yuri released his grip. He opened his arms, but paused.

         “Can I?”

         Yuri rolled his eyes, shooting a glance towards the lobby. “Fine.”

         The boy was immediately wrapped in a tight hug. He froze awkwardly, muscles tensing under Phichit’s embrace, but he didn’t pull away.

         “Shit, Phichit, you’re like a damn octopus.”

* * *

       Viktor gave the laces one more firm tug, ensuring that the skate was snug around Yuuri’s foot, before securing the knots.

         “How does that feel?”

         “Good, I mean, fine, thanks,” stuttered Yuuri. “I haven’t really skated since I was a teenager.”

         “Don’t worry. It’s just like riding a bike.” Viktor desperately wanted to believe that the shy young man in front of him, who blushed and teetered unsteadily on the thin blades, was the real Katsuki Yuuri. With the extra height added by the boots, they stood almost eye to eye. It was hard to imagine the kind face masking the dark, calculating mind of a slayer. As they walked slowly out of the lobby, he kept one hand pressed lightly against Yuuri’s back in case of a slip or stumble.

         He wasn’t afraid, not exactly – fear wasn’t an emotion that often found itself crossing paths with Viktor Nikiforov – but he _was_ wary. Hunters were rarely opportunists. Their targets were never random, but borne from a hunger for revenge that had been tempered into steel, although that rage didn’t always stem from the killers themselves. Nevertheless, no one would take on an assassin’s fee without good reason. Whether that reason was real or imagined was another question.

         Yuuri didn’t trip. His movements, although uncertain, were suffused with the same balletic grace that had filled his excited gestures earlier that night, as they pored over Viktor’s collection of books after dinner.

         Yuri was still mad at him for that, he knew, and Viktor didn’t want to scare the younger vampire more by admitting that he had wanted the two Yuris to see one another. Experience was necessary to survive, and no matter how much he wanted to protect Yurio from more pain, it was important to learn how to recognize danger and hide from its roving eye. And as for Yuuri… well. Even in Berlin, there were only so many vampires, and most were not minor celebrities with a real knack for drawing attention to themselves – and, when someone was supposed to be dead, no scrutiny was good scrutiny.

         Viktor sat down next to the rink entrance to put on his own skates, allowing Yuuri to step onto the ice ahead of him. He could see the thin, tight lines melt away from around the man’s brown eyes, half-forgotten training taking over the shaky movements.

         “I guess I’m not quite as rusty as I thought,” said Yuuri, both elation and relief visible on his face. His gaze was directed up and across the room, instead of fixed on his feet like so many beginners.

         Yuri was behaving himself, at least, sticking to languid figure-eights and basic footwork, keeping his distance from the other skaters. He had scoffed when Viktor reminded him to _‘act human, please,’_ but his eyes had the same sly glint as when he’d offered to walk Yuuri to the station. It also gave Viktor the same pacing, trembling anxiety, but at least this time he could worry about Yuri while keeping the boy in his sight.

         Perhaps it was more accurate to say that Viktor hadn’t been well acquainted with fear before he had someone else to look after.

         Phichit Chulanont appeared to be attempting to introduce himself to Otabek, who managed to deftly sidestep every meeting in a manner that _just_ toed the boundaries of chance, all while maintaining his air of stoic absorption.

         Viktor joined Yuuri on the ice.

* * *

       It really was like riding a bike. After a couple of minutes adjusting to the extra inches lent to him by the borrowed skates, his body remembered the subtle shifts in balance and form he’d thought lost. Viktor’s hand still hovered a hair’s breadth away from the curve of his back – he must have noticed Yuuri’s lingering anxiety and attributed it to fear of falling. His spine tingled every time the tips of Viktor’s fingers brushed against his skin through the thin cotton shirt, as if every nerve ending in his body had rerouted themselves, drawn towards the soft touches.  

         “You said you haven’t skated since you were a teenager?” Viktor’s questions always held a duality. His interest was obviously genuine, but Yuuri had the impression that the words were a second choice.

         _He doesn’t like to talk about himself… not in_ that _way._

“Yeah. I entered a couple of competitions – just regional stuff, nothing big – but after a while dance took up too much time.”

         “A dancer, hmm? You do have many interests.”

         “Retired now.” The thought didn’t sting as much as it used to, before he’d set down his ballet shoes with a sigh and thrown his soul into graduate studies. “I used to wonder if I made the right choice, whether I should have stuck with figure skating, or maybe ice dancing.”

         Yuuri couldn’t say why he let that slip, other than the indisputable fact that something about Viktor broke his barriers down, brick by brick. If he was being honest with himself, however, it was an offer of exchange, of vulnerability. Yurio had warned him not to use Viktor, and Yuuri could see the line between professional and personal approaching at light speed. More than he wanted to know more about what Viktor was, he wanted to know _Viktor._

         Phichit hadn’t approached them yet, even though Yuuri had expected his enthusiastic research partner to explode with questions the moment they entered the building, but the bubbling curiosity barely contained in the slight body seemed to have shifted into a more subdued reflection. Yuuri hoped that Yurio’s surly demeanor hadn’t conflicted too badly with Phichit’s gentle cheer.

         “I always wanted to try pair skating.” Viktor’s eyes sparkled like snowflakes, and Yuuri’s heart dropped to approximately his knees. It didn’t flutter so much as flop around like a dying fish as he answered the voiceless request with a tiny nod. Viktor pulled him to a slow stop, settling his other hand on Yuuri’s hip. “It’s never too late to start.”

         Their steps were unchoreographed, out of synch, and the most fun Yuuri had felt in years. A brief stumble as both tried to lead the dance, quick breaths and playful grins as their bodies drew together.

         When Viktor raised him into a simple lift, it felt like flying.

* * *

    Things didn’t change overnight, but a subtle shift had altered the fabric of their lives by the time the sun broke over the horizon, shrouded in thick November clouds.

         Two men retreated to their closet-sized bedrooms in the tiny Berlin apartment, each listening to the buzz of early commuters and exhausted night workers, life pulsing through the veins of the city. Yuuri rolled over under the duvet, thoughts whirling and dancing across a battleground. Beyond the thin wall, Phichit looked his phone for what seemed like the hundredth time, checking and double-checking his contact list, before typing the only sentence that formed in his exhausted mind.

         Several miles away, a basement door was left unlocked. Pale fingers traced the wooden frame, pulling back as the hairline crack around its edges widened under the light touch. Yuri’s new phone buzzed in his pocket, its tone unfamiliar and demanding.

         _“I’m glad you’re ok.”_

         In the library, Viktor turned page after page, every letter slipping across his vision like drops of rain, falling and falling away.

         Otabek’s exhaustion pulled his head to the soft pillows, where he dreamed of glittering ice and green eyes.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content note:** This is another dark chapter. General warnings for violence and sadness.

            Otabek Altin woke up surrounded by trees. Dead leaves and damp soil shifted under his body as he blinked, bemused, at the sun-speckled bare branches above him. The tide of sleep retreated slowly and illuminated precisely nothing.

            _Not my apartment,_ his thoughts whispered helpfully.

            Another minute ticked by. His stomach growled.

            Time. What time was it? Otabek fumbled for his phone, letting out a muffled gasp as the muscles in his arm shrieked with pain. A curse – not stifled at all – followed when his fingers found nothing but fabric in his empty pocket. He dragged himself to his feet, ignoring the pangs of protest that sank from his skin through flesh and bone. It was just soreness, if ‘just’ could be applied here. The day after his Olympic free skate, he had complained to Mila that it felt like a car had run him over and then backed up for another go. This time, it was a freight train with a grudge.

            It was probably morning, judging by the mid-March chill that snapped and teased at his exposed forearms. In a few hours, he would undoubtedly panic and check his hands and feet for signs of frostbite, search for the bloom of broken blood vessels across his cheeks. For now, he eyed the pale sun and started walking in the direction that was probably (hopefully) vaguely south. St. Petersburg wasn’t big enough to swallow someone in an endless forest.

            _If_ he was still in St. Petersburg. Otabek rubbed his face, fighting through the pounding headache that had settled between his temples as he struggled to remember some hint of where he might be, and why. His fingers found a wet patch in front of his right ear, and came away slick with viscous clots of blood.

            A walk after dinner, which Otabek had hoped would clear away the lingering traces of the last week’s fever. Texting Yuri to see if he’d survived his late afternoon intensive with Yakov and Lilia. The afterimage from his phone had blurred across the dim street, lit only by a couple of flickering streetlights and the rising moon.

            No phone. No wallet, though Otabek wasn’t sure he’d brought it with him in the first place. Had he been mugged, left unconscious in some patch of greenery?

            He only had one shoe. The other foot was encased in a wet sock, crusted in burrs and half-dried mud. He peeled it off. The lone sneaker followed, and the renewed balance was a gift that made up for the hard earth under his bare soles.

            An open lawn became visible between the tree trunks and underbrush, crisscrossed with walking paths occupied by a handful of joggers, and he breathed a sigh of relief at the familiar sight. Krestovsky Island, one of his favorite spots for an off-day run, spread out before him. He could get home from here.

            Unfortunately, ‘home’ was about ten kilometers away. There was a bus route that would take Otabek almost directly to the rink, if he had his transport pass or a few rubles for a ticket.

            A taxi. He would cross the bridge, convince a taxi to take him to the training facility, where Yakov or one of the skaters could spot him the fare until he replaced his bank cards. Failing that, maybe a passerby would let him use their cell phone. Otabek glanced down at his mud-streaked clothing and bare feet, wondering how much crusted blood was smeared across his face. Maybe not. He stepped out of the woods, wondering if someone would see him and call the police, and whether that would be a good thing or not. They’d probably take him home, but it wasn’t his preferred method of transportation.

            He’d dreamed last night, passed out on the drifts of coarse debris that made up the forest floor, dreamed of running and running as claws tore at the city streets under his – _his_ – feet, chasing and chased by a pitiless moon.

            Searing, stabbing pain tore through his heel as it landed in the scratchy, dormant grass, and Otabek dropped to his knees with a hiss. A rush of blood seeped from under his fingers, staining the dirt and shards of glass jutting from his skin.

            Fuck. _Fuck._ Worlds were in two weeks. Otabek did not have time to step on broken beer bottles right before Worlds, not after the month he’d had. The panic he’d been fighting back since waking rushed in with a vengeance and he dropped to the ground, prying out the slick splinters with a quiet whimper. Perhaps it wasn’t that deep, it just looked bad, cuts were always messy. He gritted his teeth against the nausea filling his throat, and peered at the laceration, his ankle twisted to give him a better look. It ached, but the blinding pain had faded. The bleeding slowed to a trickle, then stopped. Otabek dabbed gingerly at the skin with the hem of his stained shirt – it was too late to worry about keeping the wound clean, anyway, which was…

            Gone. He scrubbed harder, trying to reveal a scratch or nick, anything.

            The only evidence was a thin pink line scored between the rough calluses of his heel. It faded to white as he stared, uncomprehending.

            In his dream, a barrage of sensations had nagged at him, flickers of movement between the looming shadows, breathing and chittering and the rustle of feathers, an avalanche of scents tickling his nose.

            Otabek lifted his arm into the muted rays of sun, studying the set of half-healed gouges around his wrist. The scabs had smoothed into tiny pearls of scar tissue, as if the skin had been torn years ago instead of a mere month.

            No one spared a second glance for the man crouched at the edge of the woods, whose grime-stained face was hard and set as he began to walk, leaving small crescents of red on the path behind him.

* * *

         The screen of his laptop froze. Otabek could almost hear its groaned complaints, creaking under the strain of aging parts and airport wifi as Skype connected.

            “Otabek, you did it! Your first video call!” Yuri’s face glowed, his features defined and delicate even when obscured by the pixelated blur.

            “My computer might actually catch fire.” He winced as the cooling fans whirred into high gear. “Happy birthday, Yuri.”

            “Thanks! Wait, you’re using your _laptop?_ Why? That thing is a dinosaur.” Yuri looked exactly the same as he had in Barcelona two and a half months earlier, despite his weekly complaints about getting taller and outgrowing his skates.

            Otabek stared at him. “Because… Skype?”

            The laugh that crackled through the tinny speakers didn’t hold any heat. “I take it back, your laptop isn’t a dinosaur, _you_ are. You can get Skype on your phone, Beka.”

            “… Oh. That might work better.”

            Ten minutes later, his poor laptop was cooling down in his carry-on, and Yuri’s face appeared again, this time on his phone. The video was crisp, free of the lag and distortion that had plagued the earlier attempt.

            “Let’s try this again. Happy birthday! Does sixteen mean much in Russia?”

            “Ugh, not really,” his friend replied. “I could get a motorcycle license, but I think that’s it. And Yakov would kill me.”

            Otabek frowned. “Of course he would. Bikes are dangerous, you know. They should be outlawed.”

            “Asshole.” The video shook as Yuri laughed again, his phone bouncing with the movement. Otabek glimpsed a pile of laundry and unmade bed as the camera shifted.

Their conversation meandered on, bouncing from topic to topic. Though they hadn’t shared the ice since the Grand Prix Final, they had texted back and forth almost every day. Nevertheless, they discussed the European Championships (Yuri took his silver medal as a personal offense) and Four Continents (Otabek had snatched the gold from JJ by scoring a new personal best in his free skate).

“My coach is officially retiring after this season,” remarked Otabek. “He told us after Skate America, but didn’t announce it publicly until last week.”

“Ah, shit. Are you staying in Almaty?”

Otabek shrugged. He knew his face was inscrutable as always, but Yuri had a knack for guessing what he was thinking.

Instead, he asked, “How’s Yakov?”

“Grumpy as always. I think he and Lilia are actually trying to murder me.”

“Hmm?”

“Apparently funding came through to expand the gymnastics supplementary programs.” Yuri let his head drop to the desk he was sitting at, blond hair falling over his face. “So now I’m starting that after Worlds – where I am going to crush you, by the way -, along with everything else.”

“Oh, right. He mentioned that to me.” Otabek grinned. “Said gymnastics might help with my performance scores, since I won’t do ballet.”

“Of _course_ he- wait, what? When?”

“Couple of days ago. He called me after he heard I needed a new rink. Said I’d done acceptably well in the 4CC.”

“You’re-“

“In May. I’ve been checking out apartments in St. Petersburg during the last few layovers.”

“ _Hell_ yes!”

* * *

Meter after meter of rough cement fell away under Otabek’s trudging feet. He ignored the pricks and stabs of debris against the soft arches – without fail, the discomfort faded between one breath and the next.

_What happened to him?_

A few passerby glanced at the man in muddy, tattered clothing.

_What if it happened again?_

Otabek started to run, desperate to escape the suspicious gazes from the street. Could the peering eyes tell that something was wrong with him?

He pictured falling on the ice, scrapes and broken limbs healing themselves on international television.

His legs pushed harder against the pavement. The surroundings whipped by, blurring in his vision.

Otabek thought about the doctor pulling Yakov aside after the standard pre-competition checkup.

The squat grey form of his apartment complex rose in front of him, and he staggered to a halt, confounded. No more than several minutes could have passed since he left Krestovsky Island, almost a dozen kilometers away.

Newspapers would run with the story, with what it looked like. _Hero of Kazakhstan implicated in doping scandal._ Shocked phone calls from his family. Cold contempt from the other skaters. Allegations of drug use could destroy a rink’s reputation. Yakov would shout, or maybe his voice would fall to a low growl. _Get out._ Yuri’s horrified face, disgust and betrayal etched into the lines of tension around his mouth.

They wouldn’t believe him. Otabek still couldn’t quite believe himself. And even if they did… His coach could do nothing, mired in a tangle of regulations . Yuri would explode, attempt to burn down the world and rebuild it, unable to see that even his fire was no match for the coldness of reality before he was pulled into the ashes.

A businessman in a clumsily knotted tie burst through the apartment’s main door, clumsily stuffing papers back into his overstuffed briefcase. Otabek slipped through behind him, catching the entryway before it clicked shut again and locked him out.

In the best case scenario, he would disappear quietly from the public eye, vanishing between one competition and the next. In the worst… he would be laid bare before a world that didn’t embrace enigmas with friendly arms.

Otabek stopped in the hallway outside his flat and gave a few undignified hops, finally managing to grasp the spare key taped to the top sill, just out of sight.

_(“Yuri, I can’t reach that!”_

_“Which is why it’s a great spot. Besides,_ I _can.”)_

The lock turned, stiff tumblers creaking as they were forced to release their hold.

Otabek didn’t let himself think about _home,_ trace the curve of its walls and well-worn furniture. He tried not to categorize the soothing wash of aromas, the hints of coffee and Icy Hot and yesterday’s dinner, melded with a subtle blanket of life _,_ his shampoo and laundry detergent and something mellow and warm that could only be called _him._

The clock on the stove read 8:27 A.M.

He pulled the plastic containers of leftovers from the fridge. Stuffed dumplings and cold tofu didn’t make up the most appealing breakfast, but his stomach clamored to be filled and it didn’t seem right to throw the food away.

Items were carefully packed into his old backpack, folded and layered with an expertise born from a life half spent in airports and train stations. A change of clothes. His toothbrush. His passports. The emergency cash that had been stashed in the back of his medicine cabinet was folded neatly and stuffed into his wallet, which _(small mercies)_ was lying on the kitchen table.

A few days to regroup, to think. He might miss Worlds, but even that seemed like a small price to pay. Maybe he was just overreacting, maybe he’d imagined the whole thing, maybe whatever was happening would just… stop happening.

He pulled a pair of shoes from the closet and stepped into them.

After a moment’s hesitation, Otabek tucked a small stuffed bear into the outer pocket of his bag, then shrugged on his leather jacket, slinging the backpack across one shoulder as he grabbed his motorcycle helmet from the shelf.

He stopped once, on the edge of the city, to buy a cheap prepaid phone from one of the dingy, scabby kiosks that sprouted on every corner.

“Сәлеметсіз бе, анам.” _Hi, mom._ “I had to get a new mobile. Just wanted to make sure you had the number. I’ll talk to you soon. Сау бол.”

            Otabek’s fingers shook slightly as he dialed again, copying the number from a card in his wallet.

            “Hello?”

            “This is Otabek Altin. Is Yakov available?”

            “Um, yes. I’ll find him.”

            Static crackled down the line for a moment.

            “Altin. Where the hell are you?”

            “I… I’m at the airport.” The lie tasted rotten, leaving a sour film across his tongue. “There’s been a family thing. I’m flying back to Kazakhstan for a while.”

            “What- where are you-“

            “I’m sorry. I’ll call you when I know more.” He hung up the phone and slipped it into his pocket.

            _I’ll talk to Yuri soon, maybe after Worlds. I shouldn’t distract him with this._

            The bike’s tires hummed against the blacktop as he left St. Petersburg.

* * *

          The clock ticked over to midnight.

“С Новым годом!” Fireworks crackled and bloomed over Moscow as the new year began, their sparkling tendrils just visible through the window of Nikolai Plisetsky’s living room. Yuri was offered a small flute of champagne by his grandfather, Otabek sipped his soda in an effort to conceal his grin at the seventeen-year-old’s whoop of celebration. His green eyes found Otabek’s face, and he pouted playfully.

“Don’t tell Lilia.”

“I won’t lie for you, Yura.” There was no chance of hiding this smile, buoyed by sugar and Yuri’s exaggerated gasp of betrayal.

Nikolai yawned and excused himself, leaving Yuri and Otabek in the living room after he said goodnight.

“Do you still want to go out?” Parties across the city would be kicking off soon. The idea wasn’t unappealing, but Otabek found himself unwilling to leave the warm, quiet glow of the Plisetsky house. Yuri, collapsed on the squishy green couch as the traces of alcohol flowed through his body, seemed to feel the same.

“Mmmm.”

“Yuriii.” Otabek nudged his side, and Yuri arched himself away, sinking deeper into the cushions. “Yuri, you can’t fall asleep yet.”

“Yes I can.”

“No, I haven’t given you your present yet.” Yuri shot up as Otabek pulled a package wrapped in gold and silver paper from his backpack. “Thanks for bringing me with you tonight.”

Instead of answering, Yuri pushed a gift of his own into Otabek’s free hand.

The thin sheets of wrapping tissue tore slightly as he worked at the tape. Yuri was less methodical, ripping the paper off with glee, and he burst out laughing just before Otabek managed to free the last corner from his present.

They posed the plushies side by side on the coffee table, the black and white cat propped against the miniature bear.

* * *

Finding the unexplainable wasn’t difficult, once he knew to look. Most cities had a _place,_ a nondescript shop tucked away in a side street, a lounge passers-by walked past without seeing, or simply a house whose rooms were never empty. Otabek drove around the city until a unfamiliar scent brushed his nose, always new, but tinged with an air of burning metal and petrichor. More often than not, they sent shivers of bone-deep fear trickling down the back of his neck.

Then, he followed it.

This time, it was a bar. Of course it was a bar, never a supernatural bookstore, or coffee shop, or gym, which, honestly, was a damn shame. No one had ever tried to kill him in a library. Admittedly, three months ago, no one had tried to kill him in a bar either, but surely a library would be at least slightly less volatile.

Otabek kept his head down, careful not to make eye contact while weaving between the rickety tables towards a quiet corner with a good view of the room. The floor was slightly sticky against the soles of his shoes. It would be another night of watching and waiting, hoping for a needle of recognition in the haystack.

 

He still didn’t have an answer, even as he’d grown accustomed to the changes that ripped through him, the pressure that built under his skin, waxing and waning a warning. The first nine weeks had been spent creeping from town to town, afraid to stop for more than the time it took to refuel his bike and return to the road, fleeing back to the woods before his body could betray him again. On those nights, he dreamed of teeth and claws, a monster stalking through the darkness, of terrified green eyes in a pale face as snarls tore themselves from his throat. Finally, Otabek noticed the itching behind his lips as the moon grew rounder and brighter in the sky. He dared to venture near people, flinching when they brushed against him in the streets without a second thought.

The dreams didn’t stop.

Otabek had called St. Petersburg once more, after he woke up gasping, a metallic glaze of blood across his bitten and healed lips. _“I’m sorry. I can’t come back. Goodbye, Yakov.”_ He hung up, cutting off the sputtering coach, and scrolled through Instagram on his cheap replacement phone until dawn came. Yuri had deleted all his photos of Otabek, but he flicked back page after page, until a blond fourteen-year-old stared back at him, brandishing a gold medal from the Junior Worlds.

Of course Yuri was angry when Otabek left, he’d known that was coming. But he hadn’t expected to be cut off completely, excised from his life with surgical precision.

 

He didn’t make it through the maze of tables. A woman bumped into him, sloshing her drink over his sleeve.

“Watch it, punk,” she growled. Her teeth were shining needles against bloodless lips. Curious eyes lifted. He felt the weight of their stares pressing against his back.

According to past experience, this was his cue to leave. Otabek backed up, but clawed fingers gripped his shoulder, sinking through his jacket into the skin and muscle underneath. Heat prickled through his bones. He fought for breath, trying to cage the creature within. It didn’t understand that changing here, now, was a death sentence. Transforming here would be seen as a threat, giving the hard-faced patrons more than enough reason to tear him to pieces.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t-“ Otabek tried to twist away from her grasp.

She didn’t accept his apology. Instead, her other hand whipped forward faster than his eye could track, pinning him against the wall by his throat. His skin itched and prickled as he struggled for air.

A quiet voice slipped through the tense air.

“Hey, Olga.” Otabek’s assailant – Olga, he presumed – tipped her head.

“Sergei. I’m busy. This asshole tripped me.” Her fingernails twisted in his shoulder, wrenching open the punctures that were struggling to seal. Blood pooled in the sleeve of his jacket, and Otabek clenched his jaw, not letting the searing pain show in his face. He wondered how much his accelerated healing could cope with, if he was fast enough to wrench himself away and run. A mop of red hair appeared in the corner of his vision, and a moment later, he spotted a young man underneath it.

“And I’m sure he’d be happy to buy you a new one. Right?” Sergei patted Otabek’s uninjured arm.

“Right. Of course,” he croaked. No one moved for a moment, until the newcomer sighed dramatically. The pressure on his neck decreased, and the black splotches that had begun to color the room faded.

“Olga, he can’t get to his wallet. He can’t buy you a drink without his wallet.”

The woman rolled her eyes, and Otabek gasped at the tug of flesh as she pulled her fingers from his shoulder, before the muscle was finally allowed to knit back together.

He bought the drink. She took it. Sergei, his hand still wrapped around Otabek’s elbow, guided him out of the bar and into the alley outside. Otabek was leaning heavily on the shorter man, knees threatening to give out under him.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” His sleeve was damp and growing clammy in the night air.

Sergei leaned back, letting his head and shoulders rest against the grimy brick wall, as Otabek turned to leave.

“They don’t like you.”

“It’s mutual.” He paused as the boy spoke again, drawing Otabek’s attention.

“They don’t like me either. We scare them.”

Otabek had to laugh at the absurdity of that statement. “She was about to snap me like a twig, before you talked her down.”

“I didn’t phrase that well,” the redhead said slowly. In the glow cast by the streetlamps, Otabek would guess that he was about twenty years old. “I guess it’s more accurate that they’re afraid we’ll draw too much attention. I’ve lived here my whole life, so they tolerate me, and it’s easier to keep an eye on me if I stick around. But you walk in alone, smelling like trouble…”

That would explain some things.

“I try to keep a pretty low profile.”

“Shapeshifter of some sort?” The question was asked in the same low monotone, but Otabek jerked back. “Don’t worry, I guessed. You move like there are two different souls in your body. But I’d expect everyone in there had you figured out in seconds. It’s hard to keep secrets sometimes.”

“What do you do?” That was undoubtedly rude, but Otabek was too frazzled to care.

“Me? Nothing so dramatic, I just pass out and then tell people things,” he said, voice nonchalant. “What the weather will be like next week, the exact day and time of their death, the name of their future spouse. There’s not really a pattern. But I’m unpredictable, like you.”

“That’s… a little dramatic.”

“It can get people a bit riled up. So, why are you here?”

“Answers, mostly. This whole thing is a bit new to me.”

Sergei’s eyes softened, the sheen of clinical curiosity fading. “Just in general, or...?”

“I want to go back,” Otabek whispered, throat tight. Relief swept through him as the words lingered in the air between them, giving voice to the driving force behind the lonely days, but the spark of hope in his heart fell when he saw Sergei’s face.

“I’m sorry.”

His eyes burned, shattering the surrounding buildings into watery prisms. The creature in his head whined and paced, offering the only thing it could, the chance to run until his legs gave out underneath him.

“Shit, not here,“ Sergei hissed, shooting a glance towards the bar. “Keep breathing, whatever, just don’t-“

Otabek wanted to sit down on the cold cement of the sidewalk and curl up, sleeping away the confusion and pain of the night. The entire night was hitting him all at once.

“Thank you, Sergei. For everything.” He held out a hand. The redhead took it. “My name is Otabek. I think… I think I have to leave now.”

“I guess you do. It was nice meeting you, Otabek.”

It probably wasn’t advisable to drive yet, what with the way his hands shook as they wrapped around the handlebars of his bike, but he revved the engine anyway. Phantom aches burrowed into his arm as he made his way through the dark roads leading back to the cheap hostel. He couldn’t fix this. That was the only question that mattered, and it didn’t matter anymore. It was time to move on.

Otabek fell into the hard bed, already certain that he wasn’t going to sleep before the rough sheets scratched against his cheek. There was no point staying in Russia, now; the lingering hope that staying in the country would increase the chances of finding someone like him had melted into a numb apathy. Somewhere else, then. He could visit his family, stay in Almaty for a few days between full moons, and do his best to apologize. His parents didn’t need to know that their son was a bit more (or less) than human, shouldn’t have to deal with that burden, but they had sacrificed so much for his skating. They needed to hear _something._ His other friends were all skaters themselves, used to the coming and going of athletes subject to the whims of fate. Even Yuri would have to forgive him sometime, his mercurial temper cooling, and then Otabek could talk to him. His friend was carrying too much weight on his shoulders already, but he, too, deserved an explanation.

Eventually, his fatigue calmed the storm of his mind.

Otabek woke to the chirp of his phone. Late afternoon sunlight streamed through the thin curtains, warming the stiff blankets. He rubbed his eyes blearily, answering in Kazakh – the call was from his mother, probably. His family was still the only one with the new number.

“Сәлем?”

The line was silent for a moment, save for the rustle of static, before a hoarse voice replied in Russian.

“Is this Otabek Altin?”

“Yes, this is Otabek. Who is this, please?” The man sounded familiar, but Otabek’s sleepy ears couldn’t place the gruff tones.

“This is Yakov Feltsman. Your father said I could reach you at this number.”

“Why-“ A heavy stone of dread pressed on his ribs.

“There… there was an accident.” Yakov sounded weary, and much older than his sixty-odd years. “We didn’t want you to hear about it on the news.”

* * *

       The door to his apartment slammed open, but, all things considered, it was a _gentle_ slam.

            “In here,” Otabek called – or tried to. His voice wouldn’t rise above a hoarse whisper, and even that set off another bout of coughing.

            “You look like shit.” Yuri filled a cup with water, scowling as he passed it over. “You said you were barely sick today.”

            “Really, I feel fine,” Otabek wheezed, taking a sip to quell the itch in his throat. “The medicine just wore off.”

            Yuri rolled his eyes and retrieved a bottle of cough syrup from the bathroom, filling the small plastic dose cup. Otabek swallowed it, grimacing at the bitter taste.

            “This is probably going to make me fall asleep in a few minutes, just so you know.”

            “Good. You shouldn’t even be up now, you were about to hack up a lung.” Yuri dragged Otabek into the tiny living room and pushed him onto the couch. “So, what god did you piss off, anyway? A dog bite before Four Continents, losing your luggage on the flight, and now the actual, literal plague. When you get run over by a bus next week, can I have your bike?”

            Laughing meant more coughing. Otabek’s eyes watered as he flopped over on the cushions. “Over my dead body,” he choked out.

            “That’s a yes then?” Yuri left the room and returned with an armful of blankets and pillows, which were all dumped unceremoniously on the couch, before settling himself on the floor, legs crossed. Otabek squirmed out from under the mountain of quilts until his head was free and curled up contentedly, watching as Yuri pulled out his 3DS. The medicine had already started to take effect, and sleepiness blurred the edges of the room, softening Yuri’s blond hair into a shiny golden cloud.

            “’m gonna braid it.” He worked his fingers into the silky locks, trying to remember how to do a simple plait, and Yuri leaned back with a satisfied sigh.

* * *

The phone’s thin plastic casing creaked under Otabek’s clenching fingers. _No._

“Is Yuri okay?” The whitewashed walls spun around him. “Can I talk to him?”

“Otabek…”

“No, I need to– he –“ Otabek’s world was crumbling into dust. “This has to be a mistake.”

Yakov’s voice was thick with grief. “They… he was skating last night, by himself. He must have- he fell. They found him this morning.”

Yuri had promised to be cautious when he practiced alone, he wouldn’t have been so careless, he wouldn’t have fallen because of a stupid accident. It didn’t work that way, people like Yuri who burned so brightly couldn’t be taken away by bad luck, they couldn’t just…

Otabek struggled for breath as Yakov continued, words broken by a muffled sob, about the burial in Moscow, to be near his grandfather’s home. He wondered if the coach knew how angry Yuri was, that he’d removed all evidence of their friendship, whether he’d even want Otabek at his funeral.

His funeral. Otabek mumbled something, a _thank you_ or _I’m sorry_ or a wordless moan, and ended the call. He threw the phone, wanting to hear it shatter against the floor, to break into splinters like he was breaking.

* * *

Winter in St. Petersburg was _cold,_ but Yuri only pulled up the hood of his jacket and laughed as Otabek buried himself further in his own double-lined coat, shivering.

“Honestly, Beka, it’s not that bad out.”

“Liar,” he mumbled. Talking took energy that could be spent preventing hypothermia.

“Fuck, what did you do in Montreal?”

“Suffered.”

Yuri laughed, but he pulled Otabek into a café on the next corner to defrost. He sat down at one of the tables, flexing his stiff fingers in an attempt to coax back enough circulation to fend off the numbness, while Yuri ordered drinks at the counter.

A steaming mug was pushed into his hands, and his fingers brushed against Yuri’s as he wrapped them around the hot ceramic.

“Otabek, holy shit, you’re like ice. You should have said something when I asked if you wanted to go for a walk, I always forget how cold you get.” Yuri pressed his palms (which were warm, almost burning, because somehow the blond never felt the chill, even in the middle of February) against Otabek’s. “There’s no way Yakov will let you skate in Four Continents next week if you get frostbite and your fingers fall off.”

“Don’t worry, Yura, I’m fine.” He sighed as the feeling trickled down his wrists, pins and needles as the blood began to flow again. “I just forgot my gloves at Mila’s place.”

That was true. The party had been too much, too fast, with pounding music and so many people crammed into a tiny apartment. When Mila had emerged from the kitchen, face flushed slightly from the drinks (and, Otabek suspected, the visit from Sara Crispino), shrieking about how they _had_ to play Spin the Bottle, Yuri had caught his eye from across the couch and they’d slipped out the door.

Mila liked holidays. She _loved_ Valentine’s Day.

Their faces were flushed (from the sudden change in temperature, it was just the warm air in the coffee shop), Yuri’s pale cheeks tinged pink, Otabek’s cheekbones darkening a few shades under his olive skin. Otabek lifted his hot chocolate for a sip, reluctantly breaking the fiery contact between their fingers.

“So, have you decided on plans for your birthday yet?”

Yuri grimaced, burning his tongue on his own scalding chai. “Grigory is still trying to get me to go bar-hopping with the other skaters.”

“That could be fun. Yakov and Lilia probably wouldn’t mind too much, since you’ll be eighteen.”

“It sounds _annoying._ Grigory is incapable of ever shutting up, and if he throws up, I’m not taking care of him. Besides, I didn’t want to leave you out of it.” Yuri tried the chai again, and wiped a spot of stray foam from his lip.

“I’m fine with alcohol as long as I don’t have to drink it.” He had finally stopped shivering, aside from the occasional reflexive tremor. “If I wanted compost juice, there’s cheaper ways.”

Yuri snickered and stuck his tongue out at Otabek. “You’re so gross. But I mean, you’re flying back after Four Continents the day before, you’re going to be exhausted.”

“Oh, right. But I really don’t mind.” Actually, he minded a little, but Yuri wasn’t wrong – he’d want to sleep for a week after the competition, not drag around St. Petersburg all night. The shop was closing, so they finished their drinks quickly and stepped back outside. The air nipped at Otabek’s nose and ears, but didn’t sink its teeth in this time.

Yuri was quiet as they started to walk, his mood apparently having shifted in the last few minutes. Otabek put a hand on his shoulder, used to his friend’s ever-changing temper, though it had mellowed a bit over the past couple of years. When Yuri finally spoke, he was facing away, and Otabek almost didn’t catch the muttered words.

“I mind.”

“What?”

“I mind. You not being there.” He kicked the curb. “Sorry, I’m just… I’m being stupid. It’s only another day, we can hang out another time.”

            Otabek’s heart fluttered a little bit. _I mind._

            “No, Yura, I understand. It’s your birthday, and we’ve barely seen each other for the past few months because of all the training and competitions. I can be there, I won’t be _that_ tired.”

            “I mean, I was thinking maybe… I don’t want to spend the night with Mila and Grigory and the rest of them at all.”

            “What do you want to do?” Otabek’s hand, still resting on Yuri’s arm, was starting to turn pale as the lingering heat from the café seeped away from his body, and he pulled it back to stick in his coat pocket. Yuri turned and caught his wrist gently, and Otabek still didn’t understand how his slim form was an actual, literal furnace in the subzero temperatures.

            “Well… we could watch a movie or something. Order shitty takeout. Take pictures of my cat.” He breathed on Otabek’s fingers, chasing away the chill once more. There were parties across town, but this neighborhood was virtually deserted, without another human in sight as they stopped on a bridge over the canal.

            “That sounds nice.” The wide grin tugged at his chapped lips, but Otabek didn’t care. “I’d like that.”

            Yuri smiled back, and didn’t release Otabek’s hand. “You can’t have this back,” he explained. “It’ll freeze into an ice cube and drop off and the seagulls will eat it.”

            “Sounds reasonable.” His ears weren’t cold anymore, either, and it wasn’t dark enough to hide the flaming blush coloring the tips. The moon hung overhead, perfectly round and silver, reflecting off the water beneath them in undulating ripples. “Wait, Yuri, what’s that?”

            Something was splashing along the edge, scrabbling against the cement barrier that reinforced the sloping, grassy bank.

            “Oh, fuck. Did someone fall in?” Yuri’s phone was in his hand already, ready to call the police. Otabek peered more closely.

            “I think it’s a… dog?” He peeled off his coat. “Hey, hold this. I don’t want it to get wet.”

            “Beka, what-“

            “I’m going to get it out. Must have fallen in. I don’t think we need emergency services for a stray, and the poor thing must be freezing.” Otabek ran to the end of the bridge and edged down the slope, finding plenty of footholds in the frozen earth. The dog growled as he approached, baring its fangs. Its fur was spiky and wet, the tips already crusting over with ice.

            “Hey, buddy,” he murmured, voice low and soothing. The growling quieted slightly. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you.”

            He reached out slowly, ready to jump backwards. Yuri’s eyes were wide when he gently placed one hand on the thick scruff, humming softly when the animal tried to pull away. “Hey now, just a little more, it’s okay.” Otabek slipped his other hand behind its front legs, suddenly completely and totally aware of the idiocy of his plan as he hauled the dog out of the water.

            Yuri cursed above him as Otabek felt teeth snap shut around his wrist. He collapsed backwards. The dog ran off, hopefully to somewhere warm. He peered at the damage, and within seconds, Yuri was beside him, turning his hand over for a better look, using his cell phone as a flashlight.

            “We’re going to the hospital,” Yuri informed him. “That was the dumbest thing you have ever done.”

            The bite wasn’t deep – just a few scratches, really, but it was a good idea. He let Yuri help him back into his coat, trying not to move his hand too much, where the punctures were starting to burn and ache.

            “Idiot.” Yuri’s eyes were shining. “You’re a hero now, you know.”

* * *

          His borrowed suit didn’t fit right. It tugged at the breadth of Otabek’s shoulders as he hunched over on the hard wooden pew, fingernails leaving half moons in the black fabric that covered his knees. Someone was speaking, but their wavering voice merged with the pounding pulse of his heart in his ears, drowning everything out until he was left isolated with the maddening susurrus of his thoughts.

            Otabek didn’t know if he was crying, if he’d shed a tear since he’d found out. His nerves were dead, useless chunks of flesh, and he’d made the thirty hour drive to Moscow piloting a body whose muscle and bone no longer seemed his own.

            Before the funeral, Otabek had stopped in St. Petersburg and pried the spare key to Yuri’s apartment from its spot above the frame and let the door swing open, stepping into the empty living room. Half filled boxes were already scattered across the floor, stacked haphazardly, another reminder of how quickly the traces of a life could be wiped away. Yuri’s bedroom was still untouched. Clothes were strewn across the white carpet. A book lay spine up on the unmade bed, pages crumpling slightly against the sheets, half obscured under one of the uncountable pillows that formed a virtual nest on the twin mattress. Otabek had picked it up, smoothed the crinkled paper, and sagged against the bed, burying his face in his hands. It was open to page one hundred and three. He picked up a tiny stuffed cat from the bedside table, where it was nestled between a set of portable speakers and half-empty glass of water, dully surprised that it had been allowed to remain in place, apparently untainted by the crime of its association with him. Otabek placed it gently in his pocket, leaving the apartment, relocking the door and replacing the key.

            He didn’t remember the drive to Moscow, renting a suit, or finding the church and the crowd of paparazzi vultures hovering outside.

            The other mourners were standing up, moving. Someone touched Otabek on the arm, and he blinked up at them, their words muffled in his ears.

            _It’s time to…_

            He shuffled across the worn stone floor.

_It’s time to say goodbye._

The chapel was nearly empty – or rather, he realized suddenly, it had never been full in the first place. A dozen people, maybe. They were mostly gone now.

Otabek’s legs were made of lead, dragging him to the ground, down and down and under. He took the toy cat from his jacket pocket, smoothed its soft fur, and nestled it into the side of the casket.

As Otabek turned and walked away, tears finally began to fall from his tired eyes.


	11. Chapter 11

Yuri woke up to an empty house. Viktor had knocked on his bedroom door at sunset, rousing him just enough to whisper something about going into the city as Yuri groaned and shoved his head under the pillow, dozing off until the retreating roar of a motorcycle jerked him from slumber.

Of course, he had spent a few minutes slamming doors and snarling at Viktor about their new housemate, but he hadn’t been able to muster any true anger, remembering Otabek’s wide eyes as Yuri slipped, surprise knocking him from his feet – it was his own fault for eavesdropping, Viktor said later – and the abrupt apology, face shifting to the mask of blank politeness Otabek had always shown to strangers. Yuri still couldn’t believe that Otabek didn’t recognize him, that their years of friendship wasn’t enough to let him see through the changes, but… maybe he didn’t want to. And maybe Yuri didn’t want him to, either. After all, _Yuri_ had been the one Otabek had left behind without a word. _Yuri_ had been the one who hadn’t noticed that his best friend – his crush – was a werewolf.

His electric blanket had switched off hours ago, leaving the stack of blankets room temperature, but the lack of warmth didn’t make it any easier for Yuri to drag himself out from under the comforting weight.

The house was disconcertingly still as Yuri microwaved a cup of blood from the fridge (god, he missed cereal, and eggs, and even the flavorless lumps of airplane meals – his new diet wasn’t bad, but it was so fucking boring). It always felt like the building itself was rejecting him, without Viktor there to quell its discontent.

“I live here, you know,” Yuri informed the kitchen walls. They seemed to snicker back at him as one of his teeth caught on the ceramic lip of the mug, sloshing a few crimson drops onto his shirt. It turned out that fangs weren’t so much cool as they were incredibly inconvenient.

(Okay, they were pretty cool anyway.)

Yuri fumed and kicked the table leg. He wasn’t going to sit around all night and wait for Viktor to come home like some abandoned puppy, and he _definitely_ wasn’t going to let questions about a werewolf run circles through his brain all night.

  
**YP:** still harassing the locals

 **PC:** I just want an interview );

 **YP:** fuck that’s pathetic

 **PC:** And Yuuri’s not here so I can’t even ask them questions

 **PC:** Just schedule meetings

 **PC:** Or I could if anyone would actually talk to me

 **YP:** …

 **PC:** ?

 **YP:** and it didn’t occur to you

 **YP:** to maybe ask someone

 **YP:** who is an actual literal vampire

 **YP:** for help

 **PC:** !!!!??

 **PC:** It seemed rude to ask but???

 **YP:** i’m surrounded by idiots

 **YP:** meet me at friedrichstraße station in an hour

* * *

        Phichit was early - he usually was – but it seemed especially prudent to arrive a bit before scheduled when meeting one Yuri Plisetsky, who had never been known for his patience. He spent the remaining thirty minutes sitting on a slightly sticky metal bench, sipping coffee from one of the handful of shops still open at nine on a Friday night. People streamed by, a sea of glittering party dresses, business suits, and tourists lugging oversized suitcases down the staircase. Phichit finished his drink and bought another, enjoying the rush of caffeine free from Yuuri’s shrill litany of _‘oh my god, that’s your fourth cup in the past two hours, you are going to have a heart attack and die.’_

            His phone buzzed twice.

 

 **YP:** where are you

 **YP:** nevermind

 

            And okay, maybe Yuuri had a point about Phichit’s coffee intake, because he did _not_ mean to shriek in the middle of the train station, drawing several curious stares just in time for them to witness the splash of uncomfortably warm liquid soaking the knee of his jeans, when a hand tapped him sharply on the shoulder.

            Yuri didn’t even try not to laugh, but there wasn’t any malice in the soft snicker. Phichit grimaced as a trickle of coffee dribbled down his shin.

            “I probably don’t need to finish this,” he said, turning to drop the half empty cup into a nearby trash bin. Yuri stuck out his hands, clad in black fingerless gloves.

            “Gimme.” He curled his fingers around the drink, and Phichit’s curiosity got the best of him.

            “Do you drink coffee?”

            “Nope.” Yuri leapt back with rather more grace than Phichit’s earlier jump. “Oi, no, you already had your hug.”

            Phichit let his arms fall back to his sides, following Yuri as he strode purposefully out of the station, onto the steps outside, and across the square overlooking the canal. The Fernsehturm was illuminated by the glow of the city beneath, looking for all the world like a disco ball speared on a cocktail skewer. He’d taken a bus through the area with Yuuri, on a late night hunt for food. The slight familiarity faded as Yuri pushed past clusters of tipsy tourists into narrower alleys.

            “Thanks for coming out tonight.” Phichit wanted to ask where they were going, but Yuri didn’t seem inclined to give details yet. “I don’t know if Yuuri mentioned it, but… I know it’s only the first week, but research has been a lot harder than we were hoping.”

            Yuri snorted. “That’s probably because you look suspicious as hell.”

            “We’ve told everyone why we’re here,” Phichit protested. “It’s not like we have any bad intentions.”

            “No one gives a shit about your intentions, whatever you say they are.” Yuri paused suddenly at an intersection, shoulders stiff, and Phichit nearly walked into him. “You’re like a creepy guy hitting on everyone in the bar. Just because you tell them to trust you doesn’t mean they should.” He took off down a side street, not looking to see if Phichit was keeping up.

            “It’s not that bad, is it?” Something told him that it was, in fact, precisely that bad. “After all, Viktor offered to help Yuuri right away.”

            “He wasn’t trying to help you, dumbass,” Yuri growled.

            “Oh. Oh, no.” Phichit’s habitual good humor was already worn thin from days of frustration. The remainder was quickly crumbling away as realization dawned. “He thought we were…”

            “Vampire slayers, bingo.” His voice was cold, and Phichit was suddenly struck by the knowledge that he had followed a vampire far into the dark, empty alleys without so much as a backwards glance. He couldn’t quite bring himself to believe that Yuri would hurt him, but if the roles were reversed…

            “Yuuri managed to explain everything, though?” Not that he’d mentioned that part of the dinner conversation. “I mean, you obviously know.”

            “Anyone with more than two functioning brain cells would figure it out after listening to Katsuki ramble for an hour.” Yuri’s pace slowed. He wasn’t looking at Phichit. “Viktor does not have two functioning brain cells.”

            “So you told him. Or-“ Phichit started to giggle, because suddenly _everything_ made sense in its total absurdity. “He doesn’t know.”

* * *

Yuri wasn’t completely sure how he convinced Phichit not to clear up the misunderstanding between Katsuki and Viktor. Sure, the combination of veiled threats, _un_ veiled threats, and flat-out information bribery would usually have been pretty effective on its own, but… Phichit was so damn _nice_ about the whole thing that it was a little disturbing. All he did was extract a promise that Yuri would tell them if they didn’t figure it out themselves by the end of the week. Yuri had the unsettling suspicion that the other man was secretly a scheming mastermind, somehow two steps ahead of him – which was not, to say the least, exactly what he’d expected of the extroverted Thai skater he’d met five years ago.

At least he’d finally stopped apologizing for making everyone uncomfortable.

“So, Yuri, where are we actually going?”

            “We’re here. We’ve walked around the same block three times.” He dropped the cup of cold coffee into a nearby trash can.

            “… Yuri.”

            “Fuck off with that look. I wanted to finish talking first.” _I didn’t want Ulrike to overhear and rip my face off for me,_ was what he actually meant.

Her tiny bookshop seemed to have struck Phichit with a sense of awe, or maybe that was the woman herself, who had rushed from behind the counter and called Yuri a delinquent little pissant. She then turned her attention to his guest, who squirmed under her calculating gaze.

Ulrike, by all rights, should not have been as intimidating as she was. Her eyes were just level with Yuri’s shoulders, dark skin reflecting a silvery sheen that matched the threads of white in her corkscrew coils of hair. Yuri had no doubt that she’d been keeping up with the news about the ‘slayers’ in Berlin by the look she gave him when she finished inspecting Phichit.

She was much faster on the uptake than Viktor had been, immediately agreeing to an interview while informing Phichit that he would not be allowed to take any books on _delicate subjects_ out of the shop. Yuri was bemused by Phichit’s effervescent enthusiasm as he thanked her repeatedly, both in English and barely accented German, expressing exactly the same amount of joy he had shown towards skating, selfies, social media, and discovering a supposedly dead athlete lurking on the outskirts of Berlin.

Then, somehow, Phichit was sitting next to him on the train as it snaked out of the city. And finally, he was perched on a kitchen chair, trying not to gape as Yuri microwaved his midnight snack.

“Just fucking ask already.” The not-stare was making him decidedly uncomfortable. “You’re giving me the creeps.”

“Uh, sorry. I kind of expected you to…”

“Hunt?” Yuri scoffed. “I have better things to do than run around in the woods all night. And biting people leads to mobs and pitchforks and shit.”

“Oh. That makes sense. I guess I can’t really imagine Viktor doing that either. It seems a little undignified.”

“Nope, Viktor’s _traditional._ ” Yuri took a sip, watching Phichit’s expression of polite interest. “He thinks vampires should be out munching on Bambi. Keeps offering to bring me back a squirrel or something.”

Phichit didn’t even flinch. It was slightly disappointing. He took a noisy gulp, letting blood stain his upper lip. This wasn’t any fun if he couldn’t get _any_ reaction at all.

An engine purred in the distance, drawing closer to the house. Yuri ignored it for a minute – it wasn’t Viktor’s car – until he remembered that the rented motorcycle hadn’t been in the driveway. He’d assumed Viktor was helping to move stuff out of whatever hotel or apartment Otabek was staying in, maybe picking up groceries, and realization only struck when the front door swung open.

Yuri froze, excruciatingly aware of the smears of blood across his face.

* * *

Familiar voices echoed down the hallway.

Otabek wandered into the kitchen, keeping his head down, hoping against hope that Phichit Chulanont would fail to recognize him. He looked up towards the fridge, planning to stash the food and leave, just in time to see Yurio stick his head in the sink and turn on the tap.

            “What are you looking at?” Tendrils of water soaked the collar of Yurio’s shirt and ran into his eyes. Otabek picked up a kitchen towel and tossed it, hitting him in the face – it was surprisingly easy to fall into a comfortable rhythm with the blond, even with the ache that still hung heavy in his chest.

            “You missed a spot.”

            Yurio dove down again.

            _“Otabek?!”_ Phichit squeaked from behind him. “Holy shit, I thought I recognized you last night, but you’re like an actual cryptid.”

            “Uh, hey.” He took his time putting away the meager handful of groceries. Phichit seemed to take his point, leaving a comfortable buffer of personal space. Physically, at least.

“- shouldn’t be surprised, of course Yuri would tell you.”

There was a sharp _crack_ as Yuri finished wringing out his hair and slammed the soaked towel down on the counter. Otabek froze.

He had no idea as to why Phichit and his Japanese friend were here in the first place, confused by the whispers of _act human_ and _hunters_ and _dinner party._ Otabek had enough questions of his own, and since Phichit obviously posed no bodily threat, he’d decided to ignore the entire thing. Chulanont knew that Yurio wasn’t human, that much was certain, but…

They’d never been close, but Phichit had been devastated after Yuri’s accident - even Otabek, in his self-imposed isolation, had gathered as much from his infrequent checkups on social media. And now, here he was, his megawatt grin fading into nonplussed distress.

Otabek glanced at Yurio out of the corner of his eye, expecting – expecting _something,_ a cold smirk or flash of rage. Instead, Yurio looked… resigned.

He couldn’t do it. Otabek turned on his heel and rushed into the basement. He wasn’t friends with Phichit. He didn’t owe him an explanation, that the real Yuri was _gone_ , not when it would only cause more pain.

* * *

A familiar figure waved, calling across the vast concrete expanse of Alexanderplatz, and Yuuri shuffled towards Viktor. He paused automatically to let a streetcar pass in front of him, used to the hustle and bustle of public transportation from his years of travel and school, while a small flock of Americans shrieked and giggled as they darted out of the way.

“Yuuri, I haven’t seen you in forever!” Viktor’s eyes sparkled in the neon lights cast from the shops and stands that ringed the square as they met under a large sculpture topped with bronze numbers and metal rings – a clock, the travel brochure had said. “It’s been _four whole days._ ”

“Yeah,” Yuuri mumbled, running his fingers through his hair, a nervous habit he’d picked up years ago; tonight, it was already slicked back, only a few messy strands curling across his forehead. “Sorry about that. I wanted to finish those books you lent me.”

“Aw, I thought you were avoiding me.” Viktor winked. “You can keep those for as long as you want.”

“I…” _I_ was _avoiding you, but not because I didn’t want to see you._ He opted for a secondary truth. “I didn’t want to keep Phichit waiting. He managed to schedule a couple of interviews for later this week.”

Viktor pouted at him. “You work too much. I’m hereby forbidding you to even _think_ about research for the rest of the night.”

“You still haven’t told me what we’re going to see,” Yuuri replied lightly. There would be time to talk, actually _talk,_ later.

“Of course I did! You asked me to show you the city, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.” His peacoat – a deep grey, or maybe green, it was too dark to tell - flapped gently as he bounced away, Yuuri trailing after, until they reached the massive white base of the Fernsehturm. Yuuri paused, staring up at the tower that rose above them, dizzying as it stretched into the sky, until Viktor grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him into the tower itself.

 _The whole city._ His anxiety was surpassed by the fizz of excitement. Tickets were exchanged. Yuuri grinned at Viktor as they stepped into the elevator.

“I think this is cheating,” he whispered, as the lift attendant began her spiel, first in German, then switching to English.

_“- three hundred and sixty-eight meters, making it the tallest structure in Germany, and the second tallest in the entire European Union…”_

An electric buzz flickered across his skin as Viktor replied, his lips almost brushing Yuuri’s ear as he purred, “I don’t recall setting any rules.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter was drawn by [madimation](http://madimation.tumblr.com/), who is fifty percent of my creativity and one hundred percent of the reason this story exists in the first place.

Yuri didn’t knock on doors – especially not doors in his own house. If he wanted to go in, he went in.

Nevertheless, his knuckles rapped against the wood, and after a moment, the brisk taps were echoed by the thump of feet on the stairs. The fingers of his other hand clenched harder on the lip of his laundry basket, tightening until the thin plastic threatened to snap under the pressure.

Otabek’s hair was mussed when he finally appeared, rubbing the bleary traces of sleep from his eyes. Yuri had woken him from a nap, obviously – which was weird, because Otabek never used to take naps. He’d sleep for a solid eight hours every night, never plagued by the insomnia or drowsy mornings that tormented Yuri. Not even jetlag could interrupt his schedule.

He tried (and failed) to hide a yawn, and for a fleeting instant, Yuri thought he saw the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of deep brown eyes. The moment was lost as Otabek’s face shifted back to the unreadable, probing gaze he’d turned on Yuri since the night of Phichit’s visit.

 _He knows. He finally figured it out, the idiot._ Then: _He’d have left by now if he knew, he made it clear he was only here for answers._

 _Does he even care?_ The question almost slipped past Yuri’s lips before he caught himself.

“Give me your clothes,” he said instead, lifting the hamper as Otabek stared blankly. “I’m doing laundry.”

“Right. Just a minute.” He disappeared for a moment before returning with a meager wad of fabric – a sole pair of jeans made up the bulk of its mass – which he placed in the basket. “Do you want any help?”

Yuri quirked an eyebrow at the measly pile. “That’s it? I think I can handle it.”

“Except for what I’m wearing, yeah,” he said, gesturing at his white t shirt and sweatpants. Yuri shrugged.

He stepped back into the hall, almost tripping over his own feet as Otabek added, “Thanks, Yurio.”

Yurio. What the _fuck_ was that supposed to mean, using the stupid nickname Viktor had decided to punish him with? Otabek hadn’t addressed him by name – any name – in the week since he’d arrived, not even after the whole _‘I guess you’re just a body thief and not a murderer, sorry about that’_ thing at the rink. Yuri wanted to bang his head against the wall until the plaster cracked. Was Otabek saying that he _did_ know that Yuri was, well, Yuri, and this was his roundabout way of admitting it? Or had he just gotten tired of the conversational inconvenience?

Yuri threw the clothes into the washing machine and slammed the lid. It wasn’t like he could just _ask,_ not without flat out telling him anyway, and if Otabek was still clinging to his delusions… Yuri wasn’t sure he wanted him to know. And then there was the question of what Otabek would do if he _hadn’t_ worked it out for himself already.

            Hop on his bike before the laundry finished drying, probably. Which is what Yuri _should_ want, to put an end to Viktor’s harebrained scheme of ‘hey, let’s adopt the werewolf that broke your heart so you can hug it out and be best friends again,’ because somehow Nikiforov managed to live in the magical land of happiness and joy where everything worked out in the end. See exhibit one, inviting a vampire slayer over for dinner. And then exhibit two, developing a huge squishy infatuation with said vampire slayer, and then, because Viktor was one lucky son of a bitch, the hunter was a nerdy as fuck grad student who just wanted to help the world (even if he was too dense to realize that part yet).

            Okay. Enough thinking about Viktor and his gross sappiness and his mind-numbing obliviousness. Yuri could do this. Drop some hint, see how Otabek reacted.

He just needed to be subtle.

* * *

There was a restaurant above the main observation deck. It rotated slowly, giving an ever-changing view of the city below. The buildings and streets themselves were only visible in their darkness; the sparkling glow cast from windows and cars traced outlines through the night.

Yuuri sipped his tea, watching Viktor roll the delicate stem of his wine glass between long fingers, occasionally lifting it without ever allowing a drop past his lips. For all his promises about leaving research behind for the night, its specter still haunted them. The conversation was stilted and awkward, even as Viktor leaned across the table, guiding Yuuri’s eyes to the many landmarks and monuments that spread out below them.

Personal. Professional. If he refused to choose, they would both slip from his fingers, but trying to pick one risked everything too.

“Yuuri?” Viktor had noticed his withdrawal. “Is something wrong?”

“No, it’s-“ Yuuri paused. He couldn’t put this off any longer. “I want to talk to you about something.”

“Of course. Anything.”

He steeled himself. It was worth the risk this time. _Viktor_ was worth the risk.

“Let’s… let’s end this.”

* * *

A stack of clean laundry thumped to the floor in front of him. Otabek spotted his faded black jeans folded on top, the only semblance of order in the pile of fabric – the pile of fabric that was, coincidentally, much larger than the handful of clothes he’d added to the hamper earlier. He looked up at Yurio.

“That’s all I have that’ll fit you.” Yurio scowled as if being considerate was causing him some measure of physical pain, tugging the messy braid that fell across his left shoulder.

“Oh. Uh, thanks.” Otabek scooped the garments off the floor. Slightly surprised that Yurio, tall and slender, had been able to find anything suitable for his own stocky build, he pulled something from the middle of the heap at random and found himself holding a pair of pale blue sweatpants. The hems were ragged, knees worn paper-thin. The lettering that ran down the outer seams was cracked and discolored, but Otabek could just make out the flecks of gold that had spelled _Kazakhstan_ four years ago.

He couldn’t look at Yurio. Instead, Otabek rifled through the rest of the clothing. Most of it was familiar, a condensed version of his closet from several years ago, which he’d assumed had been hauled to some thrift shop or other by the faceless moving company Otabek had hired to clear out the apartment.

Otabek couldn’t help but remember that only one other person had known where his spare key was hidden – had, in fact, placed it there himself.

Yurio was still standing by the basement stairs. His glower had been replaced by a peculiar grimace, as if lightning had struck and he was counting the seconds before the peal of thunder.

Like this was some test, pushing Otabek to judge the rawness of his wounds, tugging on the wriggling threads of doubt and hope he’d locked away before they could break him into pieces. The skating, the little gestures, the hints and habits – Otabek _knew_ they were all an act, a role to play. A game pieced together from inherited memories, or learned from careful study.

            Or… He shut down that line of thought before it could reopen the fissures in his heart. He wasn’t going to torment himself, not anymore. Maybe this whole thing had been a stupid idea from the start, just another sign of his inability to let go.

            “How did you get these?”

            “Take a wild fucking guess,” replied Yurio shortly. He didn’t roll his eyes, but the sentiment was implied.

            Otabek was tired.

            He wondered where he would go next.

            “Stop. Please.” His voice threatened to crack, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

            “Stop what?” Yurio sneered. “Trying to be nice to you?”

            “Stop pretending that you’re him.”

            “Oh, so now you care.” The green eyes didn’t blink. “I didn’t think it would _bother_ you so much.”

            Otabek couldn’t breathe. Of course this thing wasn’t Yuri, could never be Yuri. “I don’t appreciate the reminders.”

            Yurio recoiled as if Otabek had struck him. “I can go dye my hair too,” he hissed, expression distorting with fury. His lips twisted into a snarl, and Otabek shied away from the sight of tapered, gleaming fangs. “Put on some big sunglasses. That way you don’t even have to look at my face, if you hate it that much.”

            His knees began to give way, and Otabek let himself sink down until he was sitting on the edge of his borrowed bed. He didn’t bother to raise his head as a soft puff of air brushed his cheek when Yurio stalked from the room and slammed the door.

            He should go. It was time, it had been time from the moment he’d seen the pale figure, blond hair shining under the streetlamps, and his preternaturally sharp hearing picked up nothing but dead, eerie silence instead of pulse and breath.

            It was close to dawn.

            Otabek let his body fall back onto the soft mattress.

            Tomorrow. He would go tomorrow.

* * *

           _“Let’s end this.”_

            “What?” Later, if asked, Viktor would swear that his first thought had been about how to avoid embroiling innocent bystanders in the star-crossed pair’s imminent battle. “Yuuri, what do you mean?”

            _He’s breaking up with me._

“I can’t keep lying to myself.” Yuuri seemed to be crumpling inwards.

            _Oh god, he_ knows _, has this been his plan all along? Yuri was right, I’m an idiot._

            “I kept pretending that I could ignore my personal feelings,” he continued. “Or balance them, or- or something. And then when I realized I couldn’t, I was too scared to give up on any of my research, because what if Phichit and I never got another chance? So I avoided you because I didn’t want to ruin everything. But…” Yuuri took a deep breath. “Viktor, I don’t want you to help me with my work anymore.”

            “I understand.” Viktor was pretty sure his heart had just been ripped from his chest and thrown through the observation window.

“Viktor Nikiforov...” Yuuri’s eyes were deep and glossy behind his glasses. “I want you to go on a date with me.”

Oh.

_Oh._

“I thought-“ His voice squeaked, and he cleared his throat before continuing. “I thought you already were?”

* * *

     Frothy waves stretched out before Otabek, its clammy fingers plucking at his ankles as he gaped with horror into the water below him, at the struggling being below its surface. He stood frozen, feet rooted to the rocks, limbs leaden – unable to move as the figure twisted towards him, fighting towards the air. Blond hair floated as he tore at the ocean from below, never breaking from the water, which stretched and rippled around his hands, pliant but unyielding. His lips moved, soundless, but Otabek could hear him anyway.

            _Beka._

            Yuri stretched his fingers towards Otabek, a voiceless plea. Everything was silent; waves crashed noiselessly against the stony beach. No gulls called as they swooped across the sky. Otabek’s arms hung uselessly against his sides. He was unable to tear himself away from the wide-eyed stare, waiting for the vibrant green to wash away, fade into a pallid, empty grey, hard and malicious.

            They glowed against the dark water, injured and accusing, as Yuri sank slowly from sight, and the sickening lurch in Otabek’s stomach jerked him back, heavy bonds wrapping themselves around his body as he grappled with the edges of sleep.

            Otabek finally woke, heart pounding, legs tangled in the soft cotton sheets. He tore them away, halfway out of bed even before he managed to free his feet from the clinging fabric. A glance at his phone told him that it was too late, or too early – outside, the sun was at its height in the sky – but he dashed up the two flights of stairs anyway, letting his forehead rest against the bedroom door. Otabek tapped lightly against the wood before grasping the handle. He didn’t open it all the way, but instead whispered through the millimeter-wide crack against the frame.

            “Can I come in?”

            “No.” The reply was groggy, but caustic. “You can’t.”

            “Please, Yuri.” Otabek held his breath, counting the throbs of his pulse as the seconds ticked by.

            A light clicked on, shining through the narrow gap along the frame.

            He pushed the door open and stepped inside.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With more art from [madimation](www.madimation.tumblr.com).

            Yuri reluctantly surrendered himself to the waking world, pulled abruptly from the void of unconsciousness by a crisp, rhythmic tapping against his bedroom door. Viktor, he assumed, with another manufactured crisis –

            “Can I come in?”

            Well, fuck. Yuri closed his eyes again. He didn’t want to deal with this, _ever,_ but especially not when the sharp, searing pain still burned in his gut. _I don’t appreciate the reminders._ He had been so stupid, letting himself believe, even for a moment... Otabek didn’t want Yuri back, was repulsed by the very idea of it, the barest hint of memory.

            “No. You can’t.”

            Was Otabek here to say he was leaving? It was more than he’d expected. But then, he wasn’t here to tell _Yuri,_ but evidently Otabek could almost tolerate Yurio, and maybe that was enough to earn the courtesy of a –

            “Please, Yuri.”

            The soft tone was a melancholy echo of how Otabek’s voice had shaped his name before, when the sound meant contentment and joy and _future._ Yuri sat up in bed, clutching the duvet to his chest, because _no,_ he didn’t want Otabek to come in, but something inside him ached for the knowledge of what would make him whisper Yuri’s name, not even as a question, but a plea.

            His own lips parted wordlessly, any reply smothered by the lump forming in his throat. Instead, he flicked on the dusty lamp by his bed, half expecting the glow to rouse him from a doze, blinking and confused, though Yuri hadn’t dreamed for years now. But the light was invitation enough. The door swung open.

            “You finally figured it out, huh.” Yuri’s voice returned as Otabek stepped across the threshold and shut the door gingerly behind him. His shoulders were hunched, head bowed, as he lowered himself to the floor, only looking up once he was seated against the far wall, leaving a clear path to the hallway. The message was clear: Otabek wasn’t here to challenge Yuri.

            “Can I tell you a story?” The veneer of shrewd assessment cloaking his face had cracked,. His eyes were pained as they lifted to meet Yuri’s shocked gaze. Otabek didn’t continue; silence hung in the air between them until Yuri consented with a terse nod. “After the…” _The funeral,_ he didn’t say. He didn’t have to. _He really did go to it,_ some distant piece of Yuri observed. “ _After,_ I tried to go back to Almaty.”

* * *

            “I went home for a while.”

_Almaty was the same as ever. The familiarity should have been comforting, but something else had changed – he had, Otabek realized. Instead, it was suffocating. Tentative questions from concerned relatives and old friends about his health (‘your mother told me about that flu, such bad luck to get bronchitis right before that big competition, but I’m sure you’ll be right as rain before next season’) before their faces shifted to the socially mandated rictus of pity, patting his shoulder while they told him how very sorry they were ‘for his loss.’_

_One week passed, and then two, and Otabek watched the moon every night as it waned and began to wax again. He couldn’t grow used to the overwhelming brightness of the summer days. He shielded his eyes from the sun’s glare with dark glasses, until reporters caught wind that the Hero of Kazakhstan was back in town after his mysterious disappearance several months ago._

            “I didn’t stay for very long.”

 _Every moment took him closer to the edge. Otabek couldn’t stop himself from glancing behind him as he walked through the nearly-deserted night streets, a cold sweat dampening his palms every time a passerby glanced in his direction. Once or twice, he caught the metallic tang of magic, forcing himself to stand his ground under the curious regard. It was only a matter of time until one of them recognized him, connected who he was and_ what _he was, and Otabek couldn’t trust that they would be a friend. Not that they would be wrong. He was still dangerous, despite the meager control Otabek had learned to exert over the_ other _him._

            He didn’t tell Yuri everything, didn’t want to twist the only way he could think to apologize into a pathetic plea for pity.

_Otabek longed for somewhere without connections, a new start. He gave his bike to his sister, told his parents a story about backpacking with a friend to clear his mind, and bought a plane ticket almost at random._

            “Sweden was one of the only countries I’d never been to, and it has a lot of wilderness. I didn’t try to find a hotel, just took a train to the most remote station they had, and started walking. The full moon was a couple of nights later.”

_For the first time, his transformation felt like a gift, alleviating the leaden burden Otabek carried. Wolves aren’t like humans, they aren’t inclined to reflect on their place in the world, past or future. Otabek sank gratefully into the background, allowing himself to become a passenger, watching events pass as if in a dream._

            “I didn’t turn back for… a long time. It was easier not to try to be human.”

_It was easier not to remember, without the constant press of loss, a concept too abstract for the wolf’s instincts to comprehend._

            “Everything from that time is a blur, I only know bits and pieces of what happened. I ended up in the south, by the coast. I didn’t know then, of course, but it was near Malmö, but far enough away from the city that there weren’t tourists. The only ones there were a pair of… I don’t know. I think they were human, but not completely. But I knew they were hiding. Like me. And somehow, I stayed with them. They knew I wasn’t a normal wolf, or even a dog, maybe they guessed I was a shapeshifter, but they didn’t chase me away.

            “One of them… she loved the ocean. The wolf would never go near it, but she would sit on an old dock with her feet in the water, trying to get me to come closer. I always stayed and watched; I didn’t want her on the beach, it felt _wrong,_ but she wouldn’t leave.”

_She laughed at the tense, worried wolf, letting her toes trail through the salty water. The earth was crusted with snow, but she didn’t seem to mind, as the waves lapped at her ankles._

            “She was throwing a stick, trying to get me to jump into the water after it, when she fell suddenly, like something had pulled her in. It wasn’t deep, only a meter or so, but she didn’t come back up. The wolf was panicked, didn’t know what to do, and I… woke up, I guess. I turned back.”

_The woman was drifting limply under the surface, unresponsive as he pulled her back to shore. She must have only been under for a few minutes, surely not long enough to drown, but Otabek already knew it was too late. She must have passed out before falling, or hit her head on the way down._

            “She wasn’t breathing. Her heart had stopped, but I tried anyway. And she… she woke up.”

 _It wasn’t like in the movies, where the victim erupted back to consciousness, coughing up water, but ultimately good as new. The woman sat up and opened her eyes, and for several moments Otabek was too relieved to realize that something was truly, deeply wrong. Her pupils were ragged tears across murky eyes, gaping holes, the warm charcoal grey faded into a pallid, icy slush. She looked at Otabek, and creeping horror threaded itself through his limbs, the same directionless terror his wolf had felt towards the ocean – but now it had substance. He tried to scramble backwards across the rough ground, but she caught his wrist with reptilian grace and_ smiled. _Her – its – teeth were spiky and uneven, shards of broken glass, too many and too sharp, too close to his bare throat._

            “The ocean… The wolf must have known there was something in there, waiting, that’s why I wouldn’t go close to the edge, and now it was… She wasn’t human anymore. I tried to run, but she was too fast.” Otabek closed his eyes, fighting down the nausea and lingering dread that accompanied the recollection.

_Otabek wrenched himself away as she yanked him down, landing heavily on his back. Knobbly rocks cut into his back, tearing through shirt and skin as he clambered backwards. He wasn’t fast enough. The thing descended, its clawed fingers slashing towards him._

* * *

         Otabek’s story wasn’t long, but he paused frequently, steadying himself between murmured words. Yuri found himself leaning forward, hanging onto each syllable, and he wondered how much was left out of the tale.

            “I met a lot of different people who were not quite _normal_. But this was the first – the _only_ – time they were…”

 _Dead._ Yuri tried not to think about the coolness of his skin, the first time Viktor had held Yuri’s fingers to his wrist, seconds passing in suspense as he waited for the seemingly inescapable cadence of his heartbeat.

            “So that’s what you thought happened to me, too?”

            “Yes. And it scared me so much that- that I couldn’t even consider...” Otabek was no longer leaning against Yuri’s bedroom wall. He’d inched forward as he was talking, seemingly unaware of his own movement, until he was sitting only a meter from the bed.

            “How did you find me?” Yuri felt lightheaded, in shock, and Otabek was looking at him like everything was supposed to make sense now.

            “A friend sent me a video,” Otabek said, and _of course_ it would be that fucking clip. “I recognized your voice.”

            “And so…” Yuri’s throat was dry. “You assumed I was a body stealing demon and rushed to Germany.”

            “Basically, yeah.” At least Otabek had the tact to look ashamed of himself, Yuri thought. He let the blanket fall to the mattress.

            “It’s nice to know you cared so much,” he snapped. Yuri knew he was being cruel, but it didn’t seem to matter.

            Otabek’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

            “What do I _mean?”_ Yuri wanted to yell, but then Viktor would wake up and interfere, so he held himself to a low growl. “I mean that you fucking left without a word, you ignored me for _months,_ but the moment there’s an evil ghost to fight you’ve hopped on the next plane.”

* * *

          Otabek had thought he finally understood, but now he was in freefall once more. It was true, he hadn’t called Yuri, but Yuri hadn’t reached out to him either, so how could…

            “I- ignored?”

            It was the wrong thing to say, Otabek knew that before he opened his mouth, but he couldn’t think of anything else. Yuri turned away until he was facing the headboard, refusing to look in Otabek’s direction.

            “I guess that’s not important enough for you to remember, either,” Yuri said flatly, the quiet monotone more perturbing than any shout. “Did you even listen to them?”

            _Listen to them? To what?_ As if hearing Otabek’s thoughts, Yuri snorted. “I called you. Every day. And you never picked up, obviously, so I left messages. At first it was about whether your family was okay, if there was anything I could do. I looked up all the newspapers from Almaty that were in Russian, all the sports magazines, because you were their _hero –_ if something big happened to your family, someone would have reported on it. I started to think you’d been kidnapped, that you were tied up in some warehouse or lying dead in a ditch. Then you called Yakov again, so apparently you were alive, and able to make phone calls. But I kept trying anyway, hoping that maybe you’d change your mind, at least tell me to fuck off and leave you alone instead of ghosting. You still didn’t answer. But I had to be sure. Finally I broke into the administrative office to find your file. I knew it would have an emergency contact number.” The words seemed like they were ripped from his tongue, stumbling and agonized. Otabek was frozen with shock. “It was your dad. He said you were fine, that you were having a great vacation, and you’d talked to them just that morning.”

            He raised his head, and Otabek wished he didn’t see the awful blankness of Yuri’s face, wished he could go back to the confusion of a few minutes before, instead of the paroxysms of guilt that wracked his body. Yuri had called him, Yuri hadn’t been angry, Yuri hadn’t _hated_ him… not because he left, at least.

            “Yuri, I- I lost my phone, before I left St. Petersburg, didn’t have a chance to replace it, I just got a disposable one.” He felt sick. “It should have been shut off a week later. I didn’t pay the bill. I thought if anyone - if you needed to reach me, you’d find out it was down and… and send an email, or a Twitter message, or tag me on Instagram. I don’t know why it didn’t – why it was still on.”

* * *

     “Fuck, Yuri. I’m so sorry.”

            Yuri floated in a daze. He was… empty. Everything he’d wanted to say to Otabek had poured out, washing away with it the flinty pearl of anguish that sat in the back of his thoughts for so long, leaving him drained. Remotely, Yuri knew that this wasn’t over yet, that even now he couldn’t forget those months so easily, but for now, he just felt relieved, freed from the weight of unspoken words. And Otabek – Otabek hadn’t heard his messages, hadn’t ignored them, because he _lost_ his fucking phone, which was supposed to be disconnected, would have been if Yuri hadn’t…

           “You didn’t miss the bill.”

            “Before Four Continents. Everything was so busy, I just forgot about it. There was only a month’s grace period,” explained Otabek. “The next one must have come when I was sick, but I missed that too.”

            “It did. I brought up your mail so the box didn’t fill up, because you insisted on getting everything sent on paper like a geezer.” Yuri huffed something halfway between a laugh and a sob. “It was stamped _urgent,_ so I tried to tell you, but you kept falling asleep. So I… I paid it. Figured you could make it up to me later.”

            Otabek was sitting beside the bed now, resting his shoulders against the mattress edge – he’d shifted to face away from Yuri, relieving some of the tension that vibrated between them – but even without seeing his face, Yuri caught the sharp hiss of his indrawn breath.

“That’s why you were so angry, that you…”

“That I didn’t tell you?” Yuri’s hands started to shake. This was too much, too fast,

rewriting months of his life, second-guessing every action. Another flash of rage sparked through him, but he didn’t know if he was angry at Otabek, or at himself, or at every shitty coincidence that led them here. “It’s not like you didn’t do the same thing.” That wasn’t fair. He knew it wasn’t, even before the line of Otabek’s back stiffened.

            “I didn’t let you think I was _dead._ ” He wished Otabek would raise his voice, shout, do something other than twist Yuri’s own words against him in that aching, leaden tone.

            “No, you just left,” he snapped back, unable to hold back the words any longer. “I didn’t get an explanation then either.”

* * *

   Yuri – actually _Yuri -_ was sitting behind him, less than an arm’s length away. Otabek should have been happy, and joy was still bursting in his chest, burning and soothing by turns, but he couldn’t ignore the scraps of festering agony that nipped at his thoughts.

            “Was that revenge, then?” The possibility dawned on him suddenly, almost unfathomable in its coldness, of Yuri holding himself still in the casket, playing dead, as Otabek splintered and broke above him. “Did it make you feel better to let me cry through your funeral? I didn’t want to believe you hated me that much.”

            “I didn’t see the point in reaching out to you after you ignored me for three months. You made it pretty clear you didn’t want me to be a part of your life anymore.”

            “You didn’t think I cared.” The ghost of sensation flickered across Otabek’s fingertips; the brush of soft fur, the tiny toy cat he’d nestled beside Yuri’s still form. He wondered where it was, if it was laying in an empty coffin back in Moscow. “I’m not that good an actor.”

            “How was I supposed to know? I was a little busy being dead.” Yuri’s voice wavered. “I didn’t think you bothered to go.”

            _Didn’t think… a little busy…_ The final puzzle pieces began to fall into place with syrupy slowness.

            “But you aren’t – you weren’t –“ He hadn’t had time to think about what happened to Yuri, if he hadn’t actually been human one moment and changed the next; the days spent wondering about the instant Yuri had stopped being Yuri weren’t much help. “You weren’t _gone._ ” He turned back to face the bed, a flash of bone-deep unease begging for reassurance that Yuri was there, was _here._

“I was. I didn’t w-wake up for almost a week.” Yuri was curled into the corner, knees pulled to his chest. “Otabek… Why did you leave?” The last splinter of resistance Otabek was clinging to snapped, because _god,_ even now they couldn’t stop hurting each other.

            Otabek lifted himself from the floor and let his hand rest on the edge of the bed, the gesture hesitant, imploring. Yuri blinked at him, but didn’t flinch away, as Otabek sat down on the end of the mattress.

            “It was a full moon. I woke up on Krestovsky Island in the morning. I didn’t know what happened, that I was a… a wolf,” he said slowly, forcing the words out one at a time instead of tumbling over each other in a frantic stream. There were too many misunderstandings already, and he wouldn’t let another one happen, let it strike his friend’s sore heart again. “But I could tell that something was wrong. Different. And I- I panicked. Whatever was going on, I knew someone would notice eventually; sooner rather than later, if I went to a doctor, if the ISU judges watched me skate. I should have told you, but I thought maybe it wasn’t permanent, or I was overreacting, and I’d be back in a couple of days without having to worry anyone. And I didn’t want to drag you into this, because I knew…” He took a deep breath. “I knew how it would look if anyone else found out. Skating was the most important thing to you and I didn’t want to ruin that, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to lie to you.”

            “You were important too, idiot,” whispered Yuri.

            “I never wanted to leave, Yura.” Otabek noticed that his fingernails had left divots in the wrinkled black denim as he moved his arm. “I never wanted to leave skating, or… or you.” Feathery blond hair tickled his hand, and Otabek’s palm skimmed gently across Yuri’s pale cheek, brushing away the tears coursing silently down his face. The green eyes widened and Yuri crumpled, leaning into Otabek’s touch.

 

* * *

          Yuri wasn’t thinking as he let his head fall forward, only that the heat of Otabek’s skin felt like home, a familiarity that had sunk so deeply into his bones he hadn’t been able to articulate what was missing until it flooded back. A remote part of him wanted to pull back behind his carefully constructed walls before something went wrong and this moment of weakness brought everything crumbling down around him. At the same time, a deeper urge compelled Yuri to sink into the moment, to bury himself against Otabek’s chest and never let go.

            He did neither. The competing instincts were overwhelming, leaving Yuri frozen in place, unable to stem the increasing flow of tears.

            “You’re cold,” murmured Otabek. Yuri, startled from his trance, shifted uneasily – he was abruptly hyperaware of the chill set into his skin, the unnatural motionlessness of his body.

            “Sorry. It’s a vampire thing,” he muttered, lifting a corner of the blanket to dry his face. Warmth lingered on the line of his jaw like the kiss of sun before daylight had been lost to him.

            “Vampire?” Otabek looked a little stunned. “So that’s what- what happened to you.” He winced, doubtless expecting Yuri’s temper to flare again.

            “You didn’t notice that already?” He quirked an eyebrow.

            “I didn’t even consider that, since…” Otabek chuckled weakly, eyes flicking briefly to Yuri’s collarbone, exposed on one side where the loose shirt had slipped off his shoulder. “I thought someone would have mentioned bite marks.”

            “It doesn’t work like that,” replied Yuri, smirking for an instant before wrapping his arms around a pillow to ground himself. “Do you… do you want to know what happened?”

            “I understand if you don’t want to talk about it.” Otabek ran his fingers through his hair, leaving messy spikes. “But if you’re okay with it… I’ll listen if you want to tell me.”

            Yuri nodded.

            “I don’t remember much. Most of what I know is stuff Viktor told me later.” He’d repeated it to himself until it felt like a movie, flat and distant. “Everyone already knows the first part. I was practicing by myself, late. I was tired, got careless, tried to jump, and I fell. But I was too close to the wall and hit it when I went down.” Yuri pulled the pillow closer, hiding his face so he didn’t have to look at Otabek. “Viktor was there. He and Yakov are old friends, so he had a key, and he was waiting for me to clear out so he could skate. He saw me fall. It was… bad. An ambulance wouldn’t have gotten there in time, I only had a few seconds left. He turned me – if you drink vampire blood and then die, that’s how you become a vampire. A bite won’t do it. And then I woke up at my grandfather’s house, a week later.”

            Yuri glanced up at Otabek, who drew a faltering breath, several shades paler than normal. “Nikolai knows?”

            “Yeah. Grandpa and Yakov found out first. They were the only ones, for a long time. Viktor wasn’t really prepared, and Yakov was already up on the vampire thing, so he was a good person to help. Viktor and I, we’d actually met a few times before, and he knew Grandpa would be there for me.”

            Conflict flickered across Otabek’s face, but it was shoved away too fast to read. _He has his answer now,_ thought Yuri. _That’s what he wanted. He doesn’t have to…_

“Are you going to leave now?” Yuri wasn’t sure how he managed to keep his voice steady, other than sheer determination not to cry over Otabek again.

            The bed lurched slightly as Otabek jerked upright, his dark eyes searching Yuri’s face. For the first time, he noticed purple-grey hollows etched above the pronounced cheekbones, a reddish tinge to the lower lids. Weariness emanated from every inch of Otabek’s body as he exhaled, shoulders sinking.

            “If you want me to go, I will. I’ve been awful to you. I understand if you don’t want me around.” His voice cracked. It was raw and hoarse, heavier than lead. “But please… please don’t ask me to leave.”

            “I don’t want you to go,” whispered Yuri. “I fucked up too. I should have told you it was me. I thought you-you didn’t… want it to be me. That you would have _seen_ me, if you did.”

            “I was – if it wasn’t you, and I let myself even wish that it was- I was too afraid of losing you again.” Hope perfused Otabek’s features. “But you mean… I can stay?”

            “Of course, moron.” Yuri couldn’t - didn’t try to – suppress his growing smile. His body felt loose and airy, giddy with the rush of relief. “Viktor’s basically adopted you, anyway.”

            Without thinking, he shoved Otabek lightly; or at least, he meant to. Otabek let himself be pushed over, toppling to his side and rolling off the edge of the bed, hitting the floor with a muted thump. Yuri scrambled up and peered over the edge.

            “Shit, are you okay?”

            Otabek lay on his back, grinning up at Yuri. “I’m wounded. Terribly. I’ll never recover.”

            A twinge of nostalgia pinged through Yuri as their eyes met again. For a moment, it had been so simple to slip back into easy companionship, but now a nagging pressure hovered between them again. Yuri wasn’t ready – he couldn’t forget the changes, the years-old ache, that settled over the quiet room. Otabek sat up, the ghost of a smile still tugging at his lips, and this time Yuri didn’t have to wonder what he was thinking.

            There was still so much between them, but for the first time, he saw a way to forge a bridge over the gap. Not back to before, that was one thing Yuri had learned and finally accepted, that there was no return, but maybe… something new.

            Yuri stretched and rolled onto his stomach, relaxing into the mound of blankets, and Otabek leaned against the bed. Neither spoke for a while, but the hush was content, even with the undercurrent of nervous tension humming through the air.

            “Hey, Otabek,” Yuri mumbled into his pillow. The only response was the soft, even rhythm of breath. He turned over. Otabek was still sitting up, but his head was resting against the bed, eyes closed. Yuri, unwilling to wake him, resisted the urge to comb his fingers through the disheveled black hair.

            “I missed you, Beka,” he whispered.  


	14. Chapter 14

            Viktor arrived home in a daze, beaming as he stepped in the shower to rinse away the clinging scent of the city, mourning just a little as the delicate smell of Yuuri slipped down the drain too.

            He had a _boyfriend._

            Under the patter of running water, Viktor didn’t immediately notice the rise and fall of agitated voices two floors below him, barbed and razor-sharp. The bedrooms and basement were soundproofed well enough that, with the doors closed, even Viktor couldn’t follow the conversation exactly, but his heart sank.

            Down the hallway, Yuri’s bedroom door slammed shut hard enough to rattle the bottles lined up on the edge of the bathtub. Viktor scrambled for his robe.

            He’d thought – been _sure –_ that Yuri and Otabek had been getting closer after their time at the rink, that Viktor had done the right thing that night in the city, when he saw Yuri’s expression, angry and afraid, but more than anything, so lost _,_ that he’d simply restrained the wolf so as to spare Yuri an… _unpleasant_ sight.

            Viktor couldn’t regret that decision, not when he saw the glint of all-consuming dread in Otabek’s haunted eyes, the internal struggle the man didn’t even realize was tearing him apart. But inviting him to stay – he’d taken a chance, but now Yuri was paying for his wager.

            He stopped outside Yuri’s room.

“Hey, котик,” Viktor said softly through the closed door. “Are you okay?”

“Peachy.” Yuri’s voice was brittle. “I’m going to bed.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I’m fine. Leave me alone.”

Yuri did not sound ‘fine.’ Viktor’s fingers brushed the doorknob, skin whispering against the smooth metal. Something crashed into the other side, shaking the frame.

“Yuri-“

“I said _fuck off._ ” Another object was thrown, this time hitting the wall. “I don’t want to talk, I want you to leave me the hell alone for once.”

That was it. Otabek would be gone the next night – alive, but Viktor wasn’t above a bit of bodily harm if it would make Yuri feel better.

“Sleep well, Yurochka.” It sounded lame, even to his ears. “Wake me up if… if you need anything.”

 

Viktor woke early, the last of the sun just fading beneath the horizon, and immediately padded down the hall. He carefully pushed the door open, hoping Yuri would still be asleep – the boy needed it – and peered inside.

He did _not_ expect to see Otabek Altin curled up beside the bed with Yuri’s fingers barely grazing the tips of his ruffled hair, both of them fast asleep.

_Okay then._

Yuri was mostly invisible underneath his usual mountain of blankets. However, Viktor could make out Otabek’s face, the lines of exhaustion still traced across his features, but the guarded suspicion and unease was gone, leaving him looking… younger, somehow. Vulnerable.

Viktor edged back, mind reeling, shutting the door as quietly as possible to avoid disturbing the scene before him, and tiptoed downstairs.

An hour later, he was sitting in the living room when soft footsteps echoed down the hallway. Viktor set aside the book he was reading as Yuri drifted in, his eyes soft and unfocused.

“Добрый вечер, Yura.” Even after nearly fifty years, it felt strange to greet someone with _good night._ Yuri stumbled into the edge of the coffee table and stood motionless, blinking slowly at it. “Did something happen last night?”

“Yeah.”

 _This was good, right?_ Viktor got to his feet, reaching out to ruffle the blond hair, but wiry arms latched around his midriff before he could lift a hand. Yuri was all elbows and jutting angles, chin digging almost painfully into Viktor’s shoulder as he tightened the hug.

“Thank you,” he breathed, stepping back again. “Just… ask me first, next time.”

Viktor stared at him, stunned.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you this morning,” said Yuri, ducking his head. “I’m gonna get breakfast now.”

He nodded mutely as Yuri wandered out of the room, frozen in place until some of the words filtered back into his mind.

_Next time._

God. Please, no.

Viktor was sitting on the coffee table, head in his hands, picturing hordes of utterly confused, heartbroken ex-boyfriends wandering Europe, when Otabek walked in. He looked more dazed than Yuri – if that was even possible – as he stopped in front of Viktor.

“I owe you a life debt.”

“I, uh.” Viktor gaped up at the man standing before him. “Don’t worry about it?”

“You saved Yuri.” Otabek frowned slightly, looking more serious than displeased. “And you were kind to me, even after…”

He stood up. Otabek looked close to tears as he gave Viktor an uncomfortably formal handshake and left the living room, undoubtedly looking for Yuri.

Kids were _exhausting._

* * *

    Yuri was in the kitchen. He jumped a little when Otabek walked in, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand.

            “I didn’t mean to wake you up,” he said, placing his mug to the side. “You looked like… you needed the sleep.”

            “You didn’t,” replied Otabek. He let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. _It really happened._ “I never sleep for very long.”

He’d woken up slowly. The border between sleep and consciousness was fuzzy and unfamiliar after countless gasping, panicked moments as he pulled himself from nightmares, or the icy shift as his ever-watchful instincts whispered _danger._

            This time, the world came back to him in stages. First, it was the rough grain of carpet fibers under his cheek, catching against the stubble coating his jaw. Next, the layered scents of shampoo, cats, and laundry, mingling with the coppery tinge of blood and light musk that had, sometime in the past week, started to mean _home._

The cat curled up against his side was the next piece to filter through. It yawned as Otabek moved, and he recognized the fluffy black-and-white ragdoll.

            “Hey, Zoyenka,” he murmured sleepily, scratching her gently behind the ears. “It’s been a while.”

            It took him another moment to figure out where he was, fuzzy fragments falling into place as he sat up and looked around the room, and finally back to the blanket that had been draped over him as he slept. Otabek tried to put it back on the bed, but Zoyenka let out a quiet chirp of protest, and he left her sprawled lazily across the comforter as he got up and went downstairs.

            Otabek sat down on the other side of the table, filling a cup with muesli and milk - he hadn’t managed to find any bowls yet – while his coffee brewed. He couldn’t stop his eyes from flicking back to Yuri every second or so, tracing over the lines of memory he hadn’t dared to touch in the previous days. His skin was paler than it had been, the subtle gradations of pink replaced with an achromatic translucence, and his fangs – _fangs -_ were hidden between similarly colorless lips.

            “Your hair is longer now,” ventured Otabek, and Yuri looked up from the cereal he’d been staring at, eyes filled with something akin to yearning.

            “Yeah. I was kind of surprised that it kept growing, after.” His gaze fell back down to the table, self-conscious. “Fuck, I miss breakfast.”

            “I just mean – it suits you.” Otabek tilted his head. “You can’t…” He gestured at the mug.

            “Eat? No. Not actual food.” Yuri tucked an errant strand of blond hair behind his ear, chuckling softly as he added, “I never thought I’d say this, but Lilia’s hell diet sounds pretty great now.”

            He realized that Yuri hadn’t touched his own mug since Otabek entered. It sat on the edge of the table where he’d left it, the thick metallic odor fading as it cooled.

            “I can eat somewhere else if it’s bothering you.”

            “No, it’s fine,” Yuri said. He stood up and dropped the dish into the sink, rinsing away whatever was left. “And I was finished, anyway. Your coffee’s ready.”

            Otabek poured himself a cup, immensely grateful for the rush of caffeine. His stretch of sleep on the bedroom floor had been longer than he was used to, and it left him feeling heavy and groggy instead of rested. Yuri hovered around the edges of the kitchen, refilling the cats’ food and water bowls before wiping down the countertops.

            “I want to get out of the house for a while,” Yuri said after several minutes, his back to Otabek as he reorganized the contents of the refrigerator. “Do you, um. Do you want to go skating again?”

            Otabek smiled. “I’d like that. A lot.”

            “The rink will close in – wow, it’s late – about an hour.” He straightened up, closing the fridge door. “We can go any time after that.”

            “I need to take a shower first.”

            “Ah, yeah.” Yuri rubbed his face sheepishly. “My carpet’s a little gross. Haven’t vacuumed in a while.”

            “Yuri Plisetsky forgot to vacuum? I’m _shocked,”_ said Otabek, smirking a little. “But no, it was fine, I-“ He faltered as an echo of Yuri’s words rose unbidden in his mind. _That way you don’t even have to look at my face, if you hate it that much._ “I forgot to take one before bed.”

            Otabek thought he saw a flicker of uncertainty pass through Yuri’s eyes, but it was gone before he could be sure.

            “You can use the upstairs bathroom if you want. It’s across from my room. The water pressure is a lot better.”

            “Thanks.”

            The basement shower wasn’t bad, by any means, but the lowest floor of the house felt empty and impersonal, lacking any traces of everyday life besides the scant pile of Otabek’s possessions on one side of the bed. He didn’t stay downstairs any longer than it took to grab a change of clothes and his razor. He pretended not to hear the clink of ceramic against glass and low hum of the microwave as he passed by the kitchen on his way back up.

            Yuri was right about the water pressure. Otabek stood in the sky blue sweatpants Yuri had returned to him and rolled his bare shoulders as he shaved, enjoying the languid ease with which his muscles responded, the taught snarls of stiffness largely dissolved. The mirror fogged up; after a few halfhearted attempts to wipe it clear, he opened the door, allowing the steamy air to disperse. Yuri was slouched against the wall opposite, fiddling absentmindedly with his phone.

            “Sorry, I didn’t mean to take so long.” Otabek yanked on his shirt, unwilling to let Yuri see the web of scars etched into his skin, evidence of his failure to avoid trouble. He wasn’t quite fast enough, and was grateful Yuri tore his eyes from the faded gash that ran diagonally from his collarbone to the opposite hip without asking any questions. “Were you waiting?”

            “No.” Yuri scowled, forehead creasing with the little wrinkle that meant _I’m embarrassed and if anyone points it out I’ll kick their ass,_ and Otabek put all his willpower into hiding the smile that tugged at his cheeks. Yuri had been waiting for _him,_ not the bathroom _._ “Need to brush my teeth.”

            They took the train to the rink – Otabek almost offered his bike, but stayed silent. Yuri hadn’t come closer than arm’s length, with the exception of an instant in which their arms brushed over the bathroom sink, when Yuri had leapt back and refused to make eye contact. Otabek almost hadn’t noticed the brief touch, distracted by the empty spot in the mirror that showed only the bathroom wall where Yuri’s reflection should have been.

            Skating felt… normal. Yet, it was still _more_ than any dramatic, tearful reconciliation could have ever been, because this is what Otabek had missed. The routine of lacing his borrowed skates soothed him, pushing away the chaos of his recent life, as he watched Yuri finish up his stretches. Everything had changed, but that didn’t matter – Yuri was okay, he was here, and they could go back to how it was before.

            Even if that took some getting used to.

            “So,” Otabek said as Yuri joined him on the ice, “You do quints now.”

            “Only a toe loop and Salchow.” Yuri scowled, then snorted. “Still enough to make every judge shit themselves. Not that Viktor says anything except _keep your core tight._ ”

            “You’ll have to teach me sometime.” _After I relearn how to skate._ Without the adrenaline rush of his last time at the rink, Otabek’s legs were unsteady underneath him as he eased out of basic warm ups into slightly more complicated motions.

            “How strong are werewolves, anyway?” Yuri was halfway across the room, but he didn’t bother to raise his voice – they could hear each other clearly, even over the low buzz of the facility climate control and scrape of the ice.

            “No idea, I’ve never met another one.” Otabek thought about his previous stumble – he was _not_ going to try any quads tonight. The disturbing process of breaking his leg and healing again wouldn’t do much to help either of them relax. “I’m pretty strong nowadays.”

            “You really- that would explain it, I guess.” Yuri didn’t give Otabek a chance to ask exactly what ‘it’ would explain before he continued, “I’m going to go fall on my ass and embarrass myself for a while, because quad axels _suck._ ”

            “You can do a quad axel, too?” That shouldn’t be more impressive than a quintuple jump, but it was undeniably the holy grail of figure skating.

            “Nope. Hence the falling.”

            The thought unsettled Otabek. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

            “It’s fine,” said Yuri with a laugh. “I have literal superpowers. I’m not going to break my neck, just my dignity.”

            The white of the ice under Otabek’s feet bled into the air, creeping upwards around his ankles in foggy tendrils. He stumbled, hand flying out automatically to steady himself, but the barrier was too far away, hazy and indistinct, shrinking.

            _No. No, this isn’t happening._

            “Otabek? Hey, Otabek, what’s wrong?” Yuri’s voice was equally distant. He was close enough to touch, but Otabek could barely make out the words. “Is this a werewolf thing? What should I do?”

            Yuri was in front of him, standing, speaking, but the blur in Otabek’s vision pulled him out of focus. He tried to breathe in. It caught in his throat, crushing his lungs, filling them with frosty sludge. He closed his eyes but Yuri’s face hovered against his eyelids, motionless, smooth but not peaceful.

            _Cervical fracture,_ the newscasters had repeated over and over, a monotonous chorus of counterfeit sympathy.

            Otabek was drowning, gasping for air.

            “Oh, _fuck,_ Beka, I wasn’t thinking.” A steady but gentle grip clasped Otabek’s wrist, and he squeezed back, trying to anchor himself. “It’s okay. Try to look at me.” Yuri lifted Otabek’s unresisting hands. He wound his fingers into Yuri’s long, silky hair, pressing his palms against intact curve of bone beneath it. A brief impression of hot, sticky blood ghosted across his skin before melting away as his thumb brushed against the nape of Yuri’s neck.

            He let out a shuddering sigh and opened his eyes, looking up to meet the anxious gaze.

            “You’re taller than I remember,” he croaked. Yuri dropped his hands, and Otabek reluctantly untangled himself from the feathery locks of hair.

            “One last growth spurt,” replied Yuri weakly. “I’m so sorry, I forgot-“

            Otabek ran his fingers through his own hair, which was damp with sweat. “Don’t worry, I was just surprised.”

Everything had been going so well before he freaked out and ruined it.

“That was a panic attack, wasn’t it,” said Yuri, his voice uncharacteristically low and soft, like he was afraid Otabek would burst into tears if he made a wrong move. “Do you want to go back to the house?”

“No, I’m fine.” He forced a smile, hoping his muscles didn’t betray him and twist into a grimace. He _was_ fine, Otabek told himself. He was just… adjusting. “It was nothing. Let’s keep skating, it’s still early.”

Yuri nodded, but he didn’t look entirely happy about it. Otabek turned away to skim across the ice, ignoring the worried stare that burned against his shoulders.


	15. Chapter 15

Yuri watched his mouth a lot more carefully for the rest of the night.

 _I’m such an asshole. Even Viktor managed to be more sensitive for the first few months._ Yuri replayed that thought, remembering how Viktor’s strategy of breaking the news gently essentially boiled down to telling him ‘you died, you’re a vampire, congratulations!’ _He tried, at least._

Otabek seemed to be okay now, testing out more spins and jumps, just barely wobbling on the worn-out rental skates as he increased the complexity of the elements. Still, no more casual jokes about death. He didn’t want to fuck this up. They’d have to talk about it soon, set boundaries, but – Yuri gritted his teeth – he needed some advice.

He didn’t have to wait long. Almost as soon as they arrived home, Viktor popped up beside him.

“Hey Yuri, can you come upstairs for a minute?”

“Uh, sure.” He glanced back at Otabek instinctively, wanting to make sure he was still doing fine, still _there._ “I’ll be right up.”

He heated up another serving of blood as quickly as possible, shuffling out of the way to let Otabek put together his own lunch. Yuri wasn’t trying to hide it, exactly, but he waited until he was comfortably out of the kitchen before taking a sip. It had been fun to tease Phichit, seeing how far he had to go to get a response, but that was when he was _trying_ to be gross. His pride couldn’t handle Otabek seeing him slop blood down his shirt the moment Yuri forgot to compensate for his fangs.

He burst into Viktor’s room without knocking. “I need to ask you something.” Viktor opened his mouth to reply, but Yuri cut him off. “No, don’t say anything yet, because if I stop I’m going to realize how stupid this sounds.”

Yuri paused. Viktor nodded mutely, taken aback.

“Okay. So.” He kicked the bedpost, buying a second in which to collect his thoughts. “I’m afraid that I’m gonna say or do something stupid and freak Otabek out so much that he doesn’t want to stay and I’ll never see him again.”

Viktor tried to pat him on the shoulder. Yuri sidestepped neatly.

“I have to admit, I have absolutely no idea what’s going on, and I’m really confused. You’re going to need to back up a bit,” said Viktor with a sigh. “But I don’t think you have to worry about Otabek going anywhere.”

Yuri had been telling himself the same thing, but hearing it from someone else was a relief.

“I know. I just don’t want to hurt him again.” Thankfully, his eyes weren’t threatening to tear up again. “I don’t want him to leave because of me.”

Viktor pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yuri…”

Right. He hadn’t actually told Viktor anything.

“He left without saying anything a few months before my accident, but that was because he was turned into a werewolf and didn’t even know I was trying to contact him, which was kind of my fault even though it was an accident.” Yuri drew a deep breath and continued. “So I thought Otabek was ignoring me and hated me, which is why I didn’t tell him I was alive, and he didn’t know anything until he saw that stupid fucking video. But he didn’t know anything about vampires or whatever, and there was this whole thing that made him think my body had been possessed by a probably evil ghost thing. Which is what we talked about last night.”

“Yuri,” said Viktor, looking decidedly nonplussed, “What the hell?”

Yuri scowled. “Never mind, that’s not really important right now. It’s just, I let him think I was dead for two years, and I know we need to talk about what this all means, but I don’t want to push him too far by being…” He dropped his empty mug on the bedside table and gestured at himself, lost for words.

“Oh, Yura.” Yuri gritted his teeth, chafing against the threads of Viktor’s pity that clung to him like cobwebs. Why had he thought this was a good idea? “He’s going to take some time to get used to this. You both will. But you’re going to have to be honest with each other.”

Then Viktor narrowed his eyes, tipping his head at that angle that meant _something_ was coming, and Yuri had a pretty good idea what. He didn’t like it.

“How do _you_ feel about this?”

Yuri shrugged, scowling again. “Fine.”

“You guys had a pretty intense reunion.” Why did Viktor always have to be so insufferably smug? And _right?_

“Otabek thought I was a murder demon. I get it. Nothing happened.” Internally, Yuri weighed the pros and cons of throwing himself out of the bedroom window. It wasn’t high enough to hurt, but maybe it would surprise Viktor enough to wipe that _look_ off his face. “Besides, I would have kicked his ass.”

“You- you didn’t talk about that part?”

“Didn’t seem important. And you already said he wasn’t a threat anymore.” Not that that should have been much of a consolation, considering Viktor’s recent track record of reacting to (admittedly imaginary) danger.

“Dammit, that’s not exactly what I meant,” groaned Viktor. “Otabek didn’t… No, he’s going to have to explain this, you two made it all so _complicated.”_

Yuri wanted to scoff, but Viktor had a point, even if he didn’t have to be so fucking obnoxious about it.

“Ugh. Great. Thanks for-” _Everything._ No. He’d been enough of an emotional sap for one day. “Thanks for nothing.”

Viktor smiled, and Yuri knew he understood.

“Right. So. I’m just gonna…” He jerked his head towards the door and turned to leave, but Viktor stopped him. Yuri was secretly grateful for the excuse to stay, another moment to brace himself for the necessary but uncomfortable discussion with Otabek.

Then he caught a glimpse of Viktor’s expression, all dopey and soft, and oh god, Yuri wasn’t feeling guilty, he _wasn’t-_

“I know you don’t like Yuuri Katsuki much,” Viktor said, his voice as gooey as his face. Yuri tried not to retch. “But I want you to hear me out. Yuuri and I are – well, we’re dating now.”

Wonder of wonders, had the idiots actually figured it out all on their own?

“As of last night, he’s officially my boyfriend.”

* * *

Viktor gulped nervously as Yuri’s eyes glittered like broken glass. The boy had been surprisingly okay with everything after that first night, even deigning to dampen his sharp tongue when the subject came up. But still… he was young, on edge, it had been a _very_ long week, and even if he hid it well, Yuri had a protective streak a mile wide.

“You’ve worked out the whole…” Yuri paused, considering his words in an unexpected display of restraint. “Vampire thing?”

“It, uh… It never came up.” He shrugged sheepishly, and Yuri snarled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like _moron_. “It’s not that I’m – Yuuri and Phichit wouldn’t try to hurt us, I’m certain of that now.”

 _I want him to get to know_ me _first._

“He could already know.”

“Of course he doesn’t, Yuri,” Viktor replied, quickly dousing the spasm of doubt. He’d _know_ if Yuuri knew, right? Though, it would bring a new meaning to Yuuri’s comment about not having a _professional_ relationship. “We’ve been very careful.”

“Katsuki hasn’t actually said anything about being a hunter, either.”

“Not in so many words, but–“ Yuri was a blunt instrument, mused Viktor. Evasion didn’t look right on him. “What are you trying to say here?”

“You’ve heard him talk about his research.” Yuri sighed deeply. “Maybe Yuuri Katsuki and Phichit Chulanont are exactly who they say they are.”

_Oh, no._

This was not the lesson Viktor had hoped Yuri would learn; he wasn’t afraid anymore, wouldn’t make reckless mistakes, blinded by his fear, but _trust…_ That wasn’t what kept vampires alive, especially not youngsters like Yuri. Survival came from waiting and watching, gathering information until it was clear when to make a move, and when to fade into the shadows. And to be fair, none of these could be called Yuri’s strengths, but Viktor hadn’t expected him to fall short of _suspicion._

“You can’t look at it like that,” he said sharply. Yuri rolled his eyes. “Listen to me. Just because someone is nice doesn’t mean that they’re not _dangerous._ I think that Yuuri and his friend are good people, and they wouldn’t hurt anyone who doesn’t deserve it, but you can’t depend on that. If you start to believe that everyone who says ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ is telling the truth, you won’t make it long enough to learn any better!”

“I’m not talking about everyone, I’m talking about your _boyfriend!_ If you would just listen to me-“

“I’m trying to protect you!” Viktor stopped, suddenly aware of how high his voice had risen. Yuri was glaring daggers. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. I’m… I get worried.”

The conversation wasn’t over, far from it, but Yuri dropped the topic and the tension in his shoulders.

“I’m going to go back downstairs. I told Beka this would only take a couple of minutes. We were going to watch a movie.”

“Talk to him,” Viktor said softly. “I understand why you’re scared – I would be too – but Otabek stayed even when he thought you were a… murderous demon? Whatever that whole thing was. Anyway, my point is, you’re not going to get rid of him so easily. And,” he forced himself to continue, because it needed to be said even if he didn’t want Yuri to have to hear it, “if he did leave… you got through it once. It would hurt, but you’d get through it again. You’ll be okay in the end, no matter what happens.”

Yuri nodded a little. If his eyes glistened slightly as they reflected the glow of Viktor’s dim lamp, neither of them mentioned it. His hand was on the doorknob before Viktor remembered the other thing he was going to say.

“About earlier-“

“ _Eugh,_ ” said Yuri, pretending to gag. “Can we just forget about all that sappy shit? I was tired.”

“No, not that.” Viktor was _never_ going to forget about ‘that sappy shit,’ as Yuri termed it. “You said something about ‘next time,’ and I was just wondering if there’s a chance you might be getting any more… guests.”

Would the next one be human? That might be even more difficult. Or maybe a dragon? Yuri _would_ be the sort of person to draw in a lovesick, grief-stricken, fire-breathing lizard. He should probably start looking for better insurance.

“What are you talking about?”

“I must have misheard you. What did you mean when you told me to ‘ask you next time’?”

“Um,” said Yuri with a blink of befuddlement, “Don’t make potentially life changing decisions for me without giving me a choice?”

“… Oh.”

“What did you-“

“Never mind. Go watch your movie. Have fun.” Viktor hadn’t been drunk in decades, but the dizzying waves of relief were a surprisingly good facsimile. Could vampires have strokes? Probably not, but he was pretty sure another round of this would give him one anyway. “And Yuri…”

“Yeah?”

Viktor gestured at the now-empty cup sitting on his nightstand. “Can you _not_ leave your dirty dishes in my bedroom?”


	16. Chapter 16

Otabek didn’t look up when he heard Yuri stomp down the stairs, the ethereal grace he exhibited on the ice conspicuously absent. Instead, he flicked his eyes across the open book in his hands, letting the words pass through and out the other side without leaving any impression. He didn’t look up when ceramic clunked against metal – a dish put in the sink, he assumed.

Otabek would rather not let Yuri see him staring at the door like an anxious puppy, and the touch of unease that had sprung to life when Yuri left to talk with Viktor was nothing short of ridiculous. The fact that he could hear the rise and fall of their conversation, unintelligible even if he’d been trying to listen, did little to soothe his nerves.

Maybe the incident earlier had shaken him more than he thought. The memory sent an angry flush blazing across his cheeks, leaving Otabek ashamed and irritated with himself. Yuri had actually died _,_ and he’d been worried about Otabek’s overreaction to a simple phrase like _he’d_ done something wrong.

He finally, _finally_ let himself look up when Yuri stepped into the living room with a stack of blankets, his laptop balanced haphazardly on top.

“Sorry, that took longer than I expected.” He dropped the stack onto the couch next to Otabek. “What movie did you pick?”

_Movie? Right, he was supposed to find something for them to watch._

“I, um, forgot.”

Yuri lifted an eyebrow and stopped fiddling with the cords connecting the computer and television.

“This means it’s my choice now, and you’re not allowed to complain.”

“Yuri.” Otabek took a deep breath. He’d promised himself, no more putting things off, not after everything. Yuri froze. “I want to apologize for earlier, at the rink. I shouldn’t have put you in that position.”

“Why the hell are you apologizing? You should be mad at _me_.”

“I- what?” If he wasn’t so surprised, Otabek might have laughed at the absurdity.

Yuri apparently didn’t see it the same way. “You know I’m not always good at- at thinking about other people. How they feel. I let you spend years thinking I was dead. And then that I was… not me.” He dropped onto the sofa, the pile of quilts forming a barrier between them. “It was less than _twelve hours_ and I had to say stupid shit. You were already dealing with-“ Yuri waved a hand at himself- “ _this,_ I didn’t have to make it worse by being a fucking moron.”

 _Did he think…_ Otabek reached out, letting his hand rest between them, offering but not touching.

“You don’t have to do that,” whispered Yuri, looking away. “I know I feel de- that it’s weird.”

“Yura, I turn into a wolf,” Otabek said softly. “Weird stopped being weird a long time ago. I’m just glad you’re here.”

“It doesn’t bother you?”

The tips of his fingers brushed against the cool skin of Yuri’s hand. “It’s different. It might- it might take me a couple of days to adjust. But that’s about me, not you.”

Yuri let his hand settle into Otabek’s. “If something is too much, tell me, okay?”

“I’ll be fine.” He was more than fine – _everything_ was more than fine, now. “So, what are we watching?” Otabek pulled a blanket off of the pile and into his lap, more to open the space between them than for warmth. Yuri followed suit, slouching against the end of the sofa and stretching his legs as he cocooned himself.

“Dunno yet. Move your arm.”

Otabek lifted his elbow, bemused – then did his best not to jump as Yuri wedged his feet (his _icy_ feet) into his side.

“My toes are cold,” he explained, tipping his head slightly. _Is this okay?_

“I noticed,” Otabek replied. He let his arm fall back, resting on top of Yuri’s ankles through the covers. _This is very okay._ “Glad to be of service.”

Yuri poked him in the ribs with one foot. “Don’t sass me, Altin.”

“I would never.”

* * *

**YP:** he is an idiot

 **YP:** the king of all idiots

 

            Phichit wasn’t exactly surprised to get a text from Yuri, but it wasn’t something he had been expecting, either. His apology for what he privately termed the Kitchen Incident had been, for the most part, simply ignored; whether that meant Yuri accepted it or was declaring war hadn’t been clear. The sudden uptick in responses to their quest for information and sources hadn’t given Phichit time to think about it. He finished every night with his head spinning through accents and languages and cryptic comments that were equally likely to be local phrases or vital hints, along with the new undercurrent of tension of _do they want to help or are they trying to get a read on us to._

 

 **PC:** who’s an idiot?

 **YP:** take a wild fuckin guess

 **YP:** it’s viktor

 **YP:** it’s always fucking viktor

 **YP:** he still can’t figure it out

 **PC:** i thought you were going to tell him?

 **YP:** I DID

 **PC:** … and

 **YP:** and he went on some rant about how some hunters were nice people but that didn’t make them not hunters and i was being naïve

 **YP:** seriously what the hell

 **PC:** oh

 **PC:** do you want me to talk to yuuri?

 **YP:** no

 **YP:** yes

 **PC:** ???

 **YP:** maybe just hint

 **PC:** ill be subtle

 **YP:** at least someone can

 **YP:** i have to go

 **YP:** otabek says hi

 

            _Otabek says…_

            Yuri Plisetsky was a god of chaos. There was no other explanation for how everything around him got so _complicated._ No mere mortal could compare.

            Except, of course, for Yuuri Katsuki.

            “Hey Yuuri,” Phichit called, knocking on the bedroom door. It was open, but Yuuri was lost to the world, hunched over a haphazard spread of books. “I wanna ask you somethi- have you been reading this whole time? You said you were going to take a break an hour ago!”

            Yuuri straightened up. Phichit winced, hearing his spine pop from across the room.

            “I can’t get a consensus on the effects of silver,” he said with a yawn, removing his glasses and dropping them onto his laptop keyboard. “We should try to find other copies, see if it’s a mistranslation. Then we can start working on ruling out other explanations – I know we were talking about whether age has an effect on tolerance, but maybe there’s just a lot of variation between people. Or there’s different… subspecies, I guess. Could that be a thing?”  

            “If you don’t put those books away right now I’m going to tie you to your bed. It’s been _ten hours._ ” Phichit sighed, long-suffering, as Yuuri started to sputter protests. “I’m going to make some coffee.”

            “You know I don’t drink-“ Yuuri tried to stifle a yawn and failed miserably- “I don’t drink coffee.”

            “It’s for me,” replied Phichit. “I’m tired just looking at you. Tea?”

            “Green, please.” Papers began to rustle softly as Phichit turned towards their tiny kitchen.

            “Yuuri Katsuki, I swear, if you turn that page…”

            When Phichit came back five minutes later, balancing two steaming mugs, he caught Yuuri trying to hide the text under his desk.

            “You’re going to burn yourself out,” Phichit chided him, passing over the cup of tea. “We have time. We’re making much better progress than we expected.”

            “I just want to get through these before Ulrike asks for them back,” Yuuri replied, taking a sip. “I can’t believe she let us borrow them in the first place.”

            “Let _you_ borrow them. She adored you.” There was something about Yuuri, his wide-eyed anxious sincerity, that had that effect on people. “Ulrike will let us keep them for a while longer. What’s really going on?”

            “Maybe you should have gone into therapy instead of linguistics,” he said with a small smile. “It’s just the usual.”

            “This _is_ a language. I speak Thai, English, German, and Yuuri.” Phichit sat down on the narrow bed – the apartment was only supplied with one chair per bedroom – and pried the pen from Yuuri’s fidgeting fingers before ink ended up everywhere. “We’re not going to lose the grant if we don’t write an entire book in two weeks. Our advisor would burn down the administrative offices before she let that happen.”

            “I know. But… what if I mess this up? We had to fight so hard to get this approved, half the department still thinks we’re just making it all up, and people _need_ this.” The conversation wasn’t new; over the past few months, Phichit had grown used to the fears that rose and fell in Yuuri’s mind, each time as demanding and nervewracking as the last. There was nothing to do except help his friend ride it out. “You can see how there’s- there’s _community_ here. They take care of each other. And even with that, it’s hard. Back home, there’s no history to use as a guide, nothing useful has been translated, and it’s just…”

            “You want to help.” _Compassion._ That was what drew everyone to Yuuri like moths to a flame, including Phichit, back when the idea of magic had been an idle, fantastic curiosity. “We both do. And we _will.”_

            “Yeah. We can do this.” Yuuri wiped his eyes, which were tinged with red from long hours of strain and stress.

            “I’m locking all your books in my room today, anyway.” Phichit smirked. “You won’t sleep if I don’t.”

            Yuuri’s eyes flicked to the table for an instant.

            “ _And_ your laptop.”

            With a trembling grin, Yuuri patted the corner of his phone. “You can’t stop me, Chulanont.”

            “Now I understand why Minako threatened to lock you out of her studio,” replied Phichit, rolling his eyes. “At least I’m just perky. And nosy. Speaking of which, how’s Viktor?”

            “He’s, uh, good.” The patented Yuuri Katsuki Blush had broken hearts on at least five continents, and Phichit offered a silent prayer of thanks for his immunity. Viktor never stood a chance. “It sounds like he had a long day. Something about Yurio and his friend, he didn’t say much, but I think they had a fight and worked something out.

            “… That’s good, then.” Phichit wondered if he could start up the long-dormant ‘when will they date’ betting pool again. Probably not, he decided, as Yuri was officially dead and Otabek had vanished off the face of the earth for the better part of three years. “But how are _you_ and Viktor? Have you brought up the vampire thing yet?”

            “Not… personally. He’s shy about it.” Yuuri ran his fingers through his hair, leaving disordered spikes. “I want to wait until he’s comfortable talking to me. So he doesn’t feel like I’m- I’m studying him.”

            “Well, um.” _Subtle, subtle, gotta be subtle,_ Phichit chanted to himself. “I was just thinking, do you remember what I told you Yuri said, about how people thought we were not being honest about the research?”

            “Phichit, _I’m_ supposed to be the anxious one here,” said Yuuri with a muffled giggle. “Even if he did think that, Yurio knows, so Viktor would have to know.”

            “But maybe you should talk about it, just to be on the safe side,” he tried. _I thought Yuri was exaggerating, but…_

            Yuuri flinched, his mood changing abruptly. “I can’t. I don’t want to upset him. We just met each other, really, and this is… it’s personal.”

            “I’m sorry, this is your business. I shouldn’t have pushed.” Phichit leaned back, giving up for the moment. “Let’s get something to eat.”

 

 **PC:** omg

 **YP:** fucking right

 **PC:** they really do deserve each other

 **YP:** don’t get gross

* * *

          “Phichit again?”

            Yuri hummed an affirmation as Otabek continued flipping through the list of movies displayed on the screen. Despite his earlier proclamation that Otabek had forfeited his part in the decision-making process, the half an hour spent skimming the nearly-countless options and bickering playfully had been just as entertaining as an actual film.

            “How about-“ Otabek paused, and Yuri glanced over to see a cat headbutting his shin. “Hello. I don’t think we’ve met.”

            “That’s Myshónok. He usually stays up in Viktor’s room.” Myshónok purred, a squeaky and halting rumble, and sprawled clumsily onto his side as Otabek stroked the soft orange fur. “He wants you to pick him up, he can’t really get up on the couch by himself.”

            “I can’t say no to that.” Myshónok chirped happily as he was lifted onto Otabek’s lap. “Why can’t he jump up?”

            “He’s not sick or anything, it’s a brain thing.” Yuri scooted across the sofa, shifting his feet so they were under Otabek’s leg, until he was sitting close enough to tickle the cat’s belly, chin resting on his knee. “Basically, he’s really clumsy. Kinda acts drunk.”

            “How many cats do you have?” Otabek’s lip quirked, a hint of a smile, as Myshónok bit his hand, feigning ferocity. “I smelled… six, maybe, but only saw three. Four, now.”

            “Five. Zoyenka, of course. Myshónok. Mitya’s the one who looks like an alien weasel. Hermes and Calla are pretty identical, but you can tell them apart because Hermes steals laundry but is otherwise pretty chill, and Calla runs around the house at four in the morning like she’s being chased by the devil.” He stopped, thinking. “I don’t know what other one you might be smelling. There shouldn’t be any strays around, but… I guess we took care of Chris’s cat while he was on vacation? But that was almost two weeks ago now.”

            “That would be it.”

            “Holy shit,” said Yuri, nudging Otabek’s shoulder. “You can actually smell that? That’s better than me. Or Viktor, probably.”

            “Not very clearly, but yeah.”

            “Wow. Oh.” Yuri grinned as Zoyenka poked her black and white face around the corner. “We have another visitor.”

            “I’ll start a movie before we’re buried under cats and can’t move.” Something cute and animated popped onto the television. The volume was almost muted, but they didn’t turn it up; Yuri suspected that neither of them would pay much attention to whatever was playing.

            “It’s your fault, you’re really warm.” Yuri glanced at Myshónok, who was lying across Otabek’s lap, looking ecstatic. He _wasn’t_ jealous of his cat, Yuri told himself. He was highly aware of the heat sinking into his shins where they touched Otabek’s body.

            “Are you cold? I mean, do you feel cold?” Yuri ducked his head and moved his legs, sitting up normally.

            “Yeah. Kind of.” Yuri glanced over at Otabek, who nodded reassuringly. “It’s… weird. Like when you drink ice water and you can feel it in your stomach, but instead it’s my whole body.”

            “Is that why you brought down all the blankets?”

            “No,” he said with a shrug. “They’re nice, but they don’t do much for warmth if you don’t have any to start with. I have an electric blanket but it’s too much trouble to haul around. Those were mostly for you. You were always suffering in St. Petersburg.”

            “Thanks.” Otabek tipped his head, letting it fall onto the back of the couch as he stared at the ceiling. “I… we switched. My body temperature picked up or something after I changed the first time. I haven’t really felt the cold since then.”

            “You actually _are_ a living space heater. No wonder the cats like you.”

            “If you want, you can-“ Otabek readjusted his position, creating an inviting nook under his arm. “If you’re comfortable with it.”

            He didn’t have to ask twice. Yuri curled up against Otabek, hesitant at first, unsure of whether he would flinch away from the touch. Otabek tensed for a moment before relaxing, and Yuri let himself melt into the warmth.

            “I’m never moving again,” mumbled Yuri, yanking the blankets up to his ears. “I live here now.”

            Otabek draped his arm across Yuri and laughed softly. The sound was a deep rumble where Yuri’s ear pressed against the side of his chest. He closed his eyes, suddenly sleepy- _ugh._

            “If I stay like this, ‘m gonna fall asleep.” Yuri couldn’t make himself move.

            “That’s fine,” said Otabek. “I don’t mind. Unless you do. Or you want to go to bed.”

            “No, it’s…” Yuri forced his eyes open. “It’s creepy when we sleep.”

            Otabek turned slightly, careful not to jostle Yuri or Myshónok. “It’s fine. I don’t want you to feel- feel embarrassed about it.”

            “I _don’t._ But it’s something you need to know about.” _Get up,_ Yuri told himself. It didn’t work. “I don’t breathe, I don’t move, I’m just kinda… dead looking.” He felt Otabek flinch almost imperceptibly.

            “I… okay.” Otabek’s voice shook very slightly, but steadied again. “If I- if it’s too much, I’ll wake you up. Does that work?”

            “Are you sure?”

            “I know you’re here.” Otabek pulled Yuri a little closer; he could hear Otabek’s heart beating, a bit too fast, a bit too hard, but slowing again, second by second. “It’s okay.”

            The movie played on, colorful and soothing. Yuri’s eyes began to drift shut again. _Maybe I should get up anyway,_ he thought drowsily. He felt Zoyenka’s bushy tail brush against his face as she, too, climbed onto Otabek, who murmured a greeting. _No, I can’t make his choices for him._ Soon, his contemplations faded into abstract impressions of _soft_ and _warm_ and _nice._

            “It’s okay,” repeated Otabek quietly.

He didn’t know if Otabek was speaking to Yuri or himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [imaginary_dragonling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginary_dragonling/pseuds/imaginary_dragonling) drew super cute art for this chapter and im. emotional. <3  
>  http://imgur.com/mcCXtMT


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content warning:** Graphic descriptions of violence, character death, references to Viktor hunting animals.

When Viktor Nikiforov woke up in the basement of a crumbling, abandoned warehouse with a pounding headache and a _not-_ pounding heart, he decided to look at it as an adventure.

He took in his surroundings with a clinical detachment: the walls were crusted with dusty spider webs, still clinging to the dried up husks of their creators, and fragments of disintegrating cement littered the unfinished dirt floor. A shallow trough, barely more than half a meter deep, was cut into the hard earth. Viktor tried not to think about the looser soil that lay in a hastily shoveled mound and partially filled the hole, or about how the grave – he couldn’t deny that’s what it was – was just a few centimeters longer than his own slender frame.

He _did_ pay attention to the handful of dead rats, pushing down a wave of guilt and revulsion even as he told himself that they’d had the same plan - they just hadn’t expected him to bite first.

Besides, Viktor had never been a vegetarian.

He prodded at the pressure in his jaws, feeling the newly sprouted fangs replacing his eyeteeth. He was relieved to find that the slight twist on the lefthand side – not enough to be worth corrective treatments, but a constant prick to his vanity – hadn’t carried over to the remodeled canine.

Well then. This certainly wasn’t how Viktor expected his tour of France to go. No, it was _much_ more interesting. He stood up, doing his best to scrub the long-dried streaks of mud and blood from his neck and side as the possibilities opened up before him.

It would be a lie to say that the thought of skipping out on his travel permit had never occurred to him, that half-baked ideas hadn’t flitted across his mind even as he batted his eyes at the official overseeing his application, insisting that _of course_ he was a good, loyal citizen, a national hero even, the most decorated figure skater in Soviet – nay, _world_ history. What he didn’t say was that he was also _bored,_ retired at the ripe old age of twenty six and a half years old, facing a lackluster, uninspired, _average_ future.

Not that he ever really planned to follow through with it.

Then again, he hadn’t planned to get jumped by a mythical creature in the charming, historical city of Clermont-Ferrand.

That part had been… unpleasant. But, after all, every adventure needed an exciting start.

If anyone had asked, Viktor would have told them he had died at twenty-six, and was reborn from the ashes on one unseasonably warm February evening in 1981.

They probably didn’t need to hear about the rats.

* * *

Viktor’s dream of velvet smoking jackets and sitting back with a sardonic smile as a room of sophisticated, worldly guests gave a genteel chuckle over a witty quip about philosophy or politics quickly faded once he realized that he did not, in fact, have enough money.

Or at least, not enough that he could actually _get_ to, as banks were generally restricted to daylight hours. Viktor had, in fact, become almost embarrassingly rich over the course of his career, a fact that lifted a few eyebrows among his international competitors, unfamiliar with the precise mechanisms of communism. It came as rather a shock to find his resources for the foreseeable future so meager, as he thumbed through his wallet and, with increasing urgency, the various extra funds stashed throughout his luggage (his hotel room was booked through the next week, and the doorman had not so much as raised an eyebrow as Viktor stumbled back after vanishing for two days, his coat inside-out to hide the stains, hair wet from a quick rinse in a public bathroom).

Then again, he’d never been very fond of velvet, and his grasp on world politics could best be described as ‘tentative.’

Viktor pawned his belongings in a shabby little hole-in-the-wall shop, doing his best to bargain with stumbling French and the unfamiliar currency, and used part of his earnings to purchase a dog-eared tourist’s dictionary, a map, and a compass. He stole ( _borrowed,_ Viktor told himself) a thick tarp from a greenhouse on the edge of town, leaving a few francs wedged into the metal frame, and began to walk.

He’d always wanted to spend more time in Paris.

* * *

_This is what camping was_ supposed _to be,_ decided Viktor. Unlike his previous foray into the world of backpacking, it involved no heavy bags, no stinky, aching feet, and no bug bites. He hiked through the woods at a leisurely pace, sticking near the RN7 motorway when he could, and looping into more roundabout paths when the trees gave way to fields or towns. Viktor’s nights were spent walking, and hunting whenever hunger began to prickle against his teeth (he didn’t make much progress for a week or two, faced with a learning curve steeper than his first wobbly toe loop, until his instincts began to assert themselves). As for the days…

When the edges of the horizon turned from inky black to navy, Viktor would retreat as far from civilization as possible and construct a hopefully inconspicuous pile of whatever debris lay around – leaves, fallen branches, discarded trash – and burrow underneath it, wrapping himself in the tarp until every inch of his body was protected, before offering a clumsy, silent prayer to whatever gods might be bothered to listen. He shut his eyes tightly as the sun rose overhead, its rays probing his makeshift shelter, and murmured sentences from the book of French phrases until he fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

* * *

It took Viktor two weeks to reach Paris. He desperately wished for a chance to wash the grime of travel from his body and clothes before venturing into the city itself, but that would have to wait until he found lodging; after two or three days spent living in the forest, Viktor had knelt by a half-frozen stream to wash his face, bracing himself for the harsh prickle of icy needles as he thrust his hands into the rushing water.

Instead of the biting ache Viktor expected, he felt… nothing. He wiggled his fingers experimentally – or tried to. They didn’t move. A nauseating numbness settled into the joints, creeping across his palms and up his wrists.

He leapt back, eyes wide.

 _Running water. Of course._ Vampires couldn’t cross running water – or, no, going over bridges hadn’t caused him any problems so far, so maybe it was just touching it. He was a powerful creature of the night and he’d nearly been taken out by a _creek._

A _hot_ shower would be nicer anyway, Viktor decided. He probably had enough money to book a bed in a down-market hotel for a night or two, and then he could…

He could what?

Something would turn up, Viktor assured himself. A city like Paris was bound to have nooks and crannies he could safely stow away into during the daylight hours, and enough to keep him entertained at night. He could look for a job – bartending, or security. He would look _very_ good in a uniform.

People like him would surely live in Paris, too. Not vampires, hopefully, Viktor didn’t want anything to do with _them,_ but less unsavory individuals on the far side of human, if he could get them to understand that he wasn’t the sort to murder unsuspecting tourists in alleyways.

* * *

A few nights of wandering netted Viktor a lovely, secluded corner in an abandoned subway station, and with that task accomplished, he turned his mind to other matters.

The lack of food was an unanticipated problem. Half his nights were spent chasing down vermin in the empty tunnels, a much more time-consuming activity than the deer he’d hunted during the journey. Viktor didn’t dare skip a meal, however; the first and only time he’d ventured out into the city while peckish had been a nightmare of throbbing hearts and the faint, tantalizing odor of blood, leaving him frozen in the street as the crowd scurried around him, _prey._

After he fed sufficiently, the remaining hours were spent finding out more about his new home – or, more precisely, the community.

A week or so later, Viktor was so used to ignoring the scent of humans that he almost didn’t notice the fire-bright trace of petrichor and electricity and something he could only describe as _strange_ that trailed behind the woman like a cloak. She caught him staring and rolled her own amber eyes, a half-smile curving her lips.

 _Perdu,_ she mouthed. _You’re lost._

 _Was_ Viktor lost? He knew where he was, but something in the woman’s face told him that wasn’t exactly what she meant.

She jerked her head, and he trailed after her. Part of him whispered that following mysterious women through the nearly-empty streets of an unfamiliar city was not one of his better ideas, but that was the same part of his mind that had insisted he return to his hotel in Clermont-Ferrand shortly after midnight instead of drinking until dawn, so he ignored it. Common sense was for common situations.

Viktor trotted to catch up with her. His French was improving rapidly, but it wasn’t enough to keep up with the onslaught of questions that fought to pour from his mouth.

“What’s your name?” Asking precisely _what_ she was seemed rather forward, but judging by the soft huff of breath she let out at his words, this might not have been much better.

“You may call me Abida,” she replied, lifting an eyebrow until it almost touched the edge of her headscarf. “You must be very new.”

“This is my first time staying in Paris for more than a few days. I’m Viktor. Viktor-“ He stopped, suddenly aware that he was, technically, a rather famous political fugitive, and he probably shouldn’t throw his full name out on a whim. “Uh, just Viktor.”

Abida drew to a halt in front of a bare brick wall. He blinked as she pushed open a well-polished wooden door that hadn’t exactly _appeared,_ but slipped from his attention until the tinkle of shop bells brought it to the forefront of his mind.

A nondescript bronze plaque was fastened to the wood.

_All Welcome. No iron. No silver. Food and drink not permitted._

The inside was filled with books, in stacks and dusty boxes and crammed onto narrow shelves. Despite the disorder, not a single page was crumpled, no spines cracked open to bear the contents hidden within. Viktor reached out to run his fingers across the faded lettering of a title. _Properties of Native Flora, H-K._ He scanned the volumes on the next shelf. _Humane Alternatives to Exorcism in Cases of Benign Possession._

A short, portly woman with grey hair pulled into a loose bun was leaning across the front counter, speaking with Abida in a low mutter. She glanced up at him for an instant, catching his eye before looking away hurriedly.

 _“- like he’d never seen one of us before. He asked for my_ name, _Renée.”_

_“You think he’s alone?”_

_“I don’t see how he could be, but…”_

_“I’ll talk to him. You’ve done a good thing tonight. Now go, or you’ll be late for work.”_

Viktor rushed over as Abida turned to the door.

“Wait!” He called. “I didn’t get a chance to say tha-“

The woman at the counter laid a callused hand on his arm and murmured, “Don’t make a habit of thanking the fae, dear. Not everyone is as understanding as our Abida.”

“Fae- _fairy?”_ Viktor gaped at her.

“Yes, yes, though I wouldn’t recommend calling anyone a fairy to their face.” Renée sighed. “Your sire should have told you this already.”

He scowled. His _sire_ had given him nothing more than a shallow grave. She noticed his expression.

“Oh. I didn’t quite believe… _André!”_ She shouted into the back of the shop. “Can you ring up- no, she wouldn’t be able to take on someone so inexperienced – do you still have the number for the Belleville clan?”

An answering grunt echoed through the room. Viktor backed away, fists clenched, resisting the urge to snarl.

“Who are you calling?” he demanded.  
            “People like you, dear. It’s not safe for you on your own.” She smiled reassuringly.

“Vampires. They’re _nothing_ like me,” he growled, edging towards the exit. She was talking about _safety,_ as if the safest thing for him to do wasn’t to stay as far away from the bloodsucking murderers as possible.

He bolted blindly to the exit, ignoring her startled shout as he stumbled through the door.

 _You’re panicking, Vitya,_ he realized distantly, instinctively gasping for breath before forcing himself into stillness as he reached the other end of the alley. Making a scene would only draw more attention, which-

“Hey, are you okay?” A mousy, middle-aged man in a black turtleneck stood several meters away, examining Viktor with moist blue eyes. “I couldn’t help but hear…”

“I’m fine, thank you.” Viktor flashed the same close-lipped smile he’d perfected to appease cameras and reporters, all pleasantry and no emotion. “I really must be going now.”

“Wait,” he insisted, stepping forward. A flicker of recognition washed over Viktor, slippery and repellant. The man was-

“I have no business with you,” he hissed, turning away without another glance, but quiet, calm words forced him to a standstill.

“I’m not like them _,_ either.”

* * *

       “They’re cowards. Hiding, lurking, pretending not to be the monsters they are.” The pleasant face twisted into a sneer, jaw clenched.

            Viktor blinked at the sudden vitriol, but nodded. “I thought I’d miss it more. Being alive.”

            “You’re lucky,” the older vampire replied quietly. “You can’t go back. Your friends, your family… there’s not a human on this earth who would lift a finger to help you, if they knew what you were.”

            “I wish- some parts are still hard.” He looked down at his feet.

            “Hunting, you mean?”

            “Yeah. I tell myself I’m just surviving, that it’s no different from eating steak.”

            “It gets easier. They’re only animals.”

            “I thought it would be so glamorous,” Viktor whispered. “Did you ever feel… on my way here, I- I caught a squirrel, and afterwards, I couldn’t stop wondering if it had a family, if there was a nest of baby squirrels waiting for their mom or dad to come home.”

            The man stared at him.

* * *

       Marius Gagnon’s demeanor was a sharp contrast to his smooth, tranquil voice, all darting eyes and twitching fingers. It gave him an air of uncertainty, but Viktor quickly realized that the other vampire was anything but incapable.

            “Stay downwind,” Marius murmured, watching the wild boar nose through the leaf litter. “Stealth is more reliable than speed.”

            Viktor was increasingly unsure of how he’d managed to make it so far on his own, fumbling through the simplest of tasks, a Russian roulette of trial and error. He had barely been able to feed himself, lurking in the subway tunnels, unwilling to hunt in the woods outside of Paris for fear of observation.

            “Hiding something will only draw more attention. Leave answers, not questions.” Viktor left the remains of his meal on the side of the motorway during a lull in the midnight traffic; no one would spare roadkill a second thought. Marius was already walking back to the grove where they’d left his car, concealed from the view of any passing drivers.

            “Aren’t you going to eat anything?” Viktor asked.

            Marius shook his head. “As you get older, you won’t have to hunt as frequently. Once or twice a week is sufficient for me.” He winked at Viktor. “Besides, pig isn’t quite to my taste – I can afford to be picky.”

            The drive back into the city was companionable, but mostly silent. Viktor thought about asking Marius where he spent his days, whether he was staying in some forgotten nook or cranny, or if he had an apartment somewhere in town – and if he had a home, what about a job? A family? However, the few questions he had ventured over the past three weeks had been politely, if firmly, rebuffed. Viktor didn’t push; after all, everyone had their secrets, and he hadn’t yet worked up the courage to reveal his last name for fear of recognition.

            Marius’s driving was as cautious as everything else he did. His eyes flicked between the mirrors, palms drumming an unsteady, syncopated rhythm on the cracked leather of the steering wheel. Viktor found himself fidgeting, anxiously trying (and failing) to predict the irregular beat.

            It was a relief when the car shuddered to stop on the edge of town.

            “Can you find your way home from here?” Marius asked. “I have business tonight.”

            Viktor nodded and clambered out of the car, not expecting his friend to elaborate. He opened his mouth to bid goodnight, but Marius lifted a hand to cut him off.

            “I’m not planning to remain in Paris much longer,” he said quietly. “The mugging incident two nights ago… it’s attracting notice.”

            “What?” Viktor bit his lip, wincing at the prick of pain. “But that- that was a robbery. The police said so. It was in the newspaper.”  

            “There was- I’ve heard rumors of a witness. Someone contradicting the official story.” Marius sighed heavily, letting his eyes fall to the dashboard. “This is going to be hard for you to hear, what with your experiences, but it sounds like…”

            Viktor struggled to keep himself upright, fingers tightened around the edge of the car door until the rusty metal creaked and began to crumple. Marius winced.

            “I’m sorry, Viktor.” He checked his watch. “It’s late.”

            “How much longer are you staying in the city?” The prospect of being alone again was terrifying.

            “It depends,” replied Marius. He leaned over and patted Viktor’s hand. “But don’t worry. I won’t leave you behind.”

* * *

       Viktor would have sworn there were eyes on him as he slipped through the streets. Not an impersonal glance from a passing car, or the weary, watchful gazes of the homeless men and women who would sometimes wake as he passed by, but the hungry eyes of a predator.

            Being watched was not a new sensation for Viktor, whose life had been spent jumping between spotlights and flashbulbs, smiling and waving and performing until even he wasn’t sure who stepped off the ice and into the clutches of fevered reporters.

            It was Marius rubbing off on him, Viktor told himself. The man’s darting eyes and backwards looks were contagious. A viral paranoia to go with his own ever-growing understanding that the life he’d stumbled into wasn’t going to be as carefree as he hoped.  

            The revelation that someone had discovered monsters lurking in the darkness, and instead of running, went looking for them.

            The sidewalk was uneven under Viktor’s feet, mirroring the bumpy path of his thoughts.

            _Leave answers, not questions._ Knife wounds would explain blood loss, as well as covering – or replacing – any bite marks. Who would bother to look further?

            If Marius was right, if the mugging-gone-wrong had never been a mugging in the first place, did that mean something more would – or had – happened to the victim? The older vampire’s anxiety had increased to outright fear, spilling from him in waves. That didn’t bode well for the friendliness of whoever, or _what_ ever, had taken an ‘interest,’ and Viktor couldn’t blame them.

            However, the unnamed man who had been attacked deserved a second chance, if there was a possibility that he too would wake and find himself lost in a new, harsher world. Cruelty couldn’t be an integral part of every vampire, leaving them driven by dispassionate hunger – after all, Viktor didn’t feel any less repulsed by the thought of harming a human, even when his instincts cried for blood, and Marius felt the same.

            Viktor had no reason to believe that the hunter, for surely that’s who was coming, would allow the newly risen vampire the benefit of the doubt. If, that is, he was turned in the first place. Obviously not everyone who was bitten transformed, or everyone in the world would know about vampires, but if there was even the slimmest possibility…

            They had to help. There was no way Viktor, inexperienced as he was, could keep someone else safe when he had barely managed to stay alive himself, but Marius would know what to do. The only problem was…

            _“Shit,”_ hissed Viktor. He had no idea where the victim’s body would be kept, how to get to him, or even the slightest idea of where to start. He also, unfortunately, had no idea where to find Marius, who could be kilometers away by now, too far to track by scent.

            There was nothing he could do.

            _Helpless._ He was helpless.

            Viktor felt paralyzed, as incapable and powerless as he’d been when hands as unforgiving as iron bands had yanked him from the street, covering his mouth to cut off his yelp of surprise before it could be borne from his lungs. He’d struggled anyway, sinking his teeth into the fingers pressed against his lips, coating his tongue with thick, cold blood. Then came the pain in his neck, an overwhelming pressure as he kept fighting, _hang on for another minute someone will come someone will help me someone will save me,_ still not understanding that he was _alone._ Abandoned.

            And now it was happening again, it had _happened_ again. Not to him, but someone else, as he stood by without lifting a hand.

            Viktor couldn’t keep pretending that it was a freak accident, an adventure, an origin story.

            But maybe… maybe he could be a hero.

            Monsters killed. Monsters stood by and let people die. A hero, though – there was someone Viktor could still save.

            He started to run, pausing only to check directions on the city map tucked into his pocket. The victim had been found in Parc Montsouris, in the south of Paris, no more than a few minutes from his current location if he moved fast. There was no guarantee that the witness lived near the park, or would ever venture into the area ever again after what they’d seen, but it was the only lead Viktor had.

            It was also, if he was lucky, the only lead the other vampire had, and they were surely keen to eliminate any remaining evidence before the hunters descended.

            Viktor grinned. _He_ had the advantage, this time. He didn’t have to find one human in all of Paris, just the _non_ human, a larger needle in a much smaller haystack.

* * *

        Parc Montsouris was beautiful.

            Viktor felt a twinge of pain as he pictured what it would look like early in the morning, as dawn broke and sunlight trickled down on the meticulously maintained gardens and lush grass. Leaves had just begun to form, gentle green buds that softened the edges of the skeletal grey trees, but bright bursts of flowers spilled color across the awakening landscape. It was easy to see why a restless Parisian might seek solace in the peaceful oasis.

            Tonight, however, no drowsy inhabitants roamed the paths. He looped around the outside edge, allowing the gentle night breeze to sift through the gardens, picking up memories of the day’s visitors, muddled perfume of the myriad flowers, and…

            _There._

He crept through the shadows, relief warring with thrills of fear between each silent step as he stalked the familiar scent. _He was right. He wasn’t too late._

Viktor’s eyes, unhindered by the night’s gloom, picked out a silhouette, the figure nigh invisible save for the shift in texture between rough bark and smooth fabric, and he realized the flaw in his plan: he had no idea what to do once he _found_ the culprit.

            The breeze shifted, fate no longer in his favor, and the vampire turned to face him.

            _“Viktor?”_ Marius’s watery eyes were wide with shock. “What are you doing here?”

            “I’m here to help.” A dam broke inside him and tension poured out of Viktor’s body. He should have known that Marius wouldn’t be able to stand by either. “I realized that they’d come back for the witness, and I couldn’t just let that happen.”

            “Let that-“ Marius lifted his eyebrows for a moment before smiling at Viktor. “Of course you couldn’t. How did you get here? Were you seen? Followed?”

            “Um,” Viktor hesitated, trying to recall. There was the sensation of being followed, but that had only been his own anxiety. “No. I don’t think anyone noticed me.”

            “Are you absolutely sure?”

            “Yes,” he replied firmly. “I’m certain. So, what do we do?”

            The buildings and streetlamps set along the eastern edge of the park were just visible from their position, Viktor realized, as Marius guided his eyes towards an old, ornate structure clearly seen through a gap in the trees.

            “That’s her- the witness’s- hotel. You know about thresholds?”

            He shook his head.

            “We can’t cross them without an invitation, even for hotel rooms, as long as they’re occupied.” Marius sighed. “It’s not as strong a protection as an actual home, but it’s enough.”

            Viktor smiled to himself. As long as the woman stayed inside until sunrise, she was safe, which would hopefully give Viktor and Marius a chance to find the attacker and stop them.

* * *

          “Do we just… wait?”

Viktor was getting antsy. He was somehow more unnerved by Marius’s uncharacteristically motionless body, a hunter turned to stone.

“I was thinking.”

He balked at the mild rebuke in Marius’s voice, but steeled himself.

“You have a plan?”

“We’re going to draw them out.” The tips of Marius’s fangs gleamed, almost glowing against the gloom.

“We- how?”

“We’ll need _her._ And for that, I need you.”

Butterflies tickled Viktor’s stomach as he mulled it over. This could succeed. _They_ could succeed. It was a risk for all of them, but he couldn’t see another way.

“We can’t just walk in, can we?” He didn’t expect saving people to involve this much uncertainty, he was supposed to have a _plan._ “What if someone _else_ is here, too? The… the ones you talked about before.”

If they could get in without making themselves into targets, the question of how they’d find the witness remained. Viktor didn’t even want to think about trying to convince her that they were there to help, after what she must have seen.

Marius turned to him, his expression solemn. “Viktor, do you trust me?”

Viktor didn’t have to take a moment to consider it. “Absolutely.”

“We can’t both go in. It would draw too much attention.” He glanced up at the moon overhead before continuing. “I found her room number through… certain sources. I’ll stand guard, make sure you’re safe, while you get her to come out here.”

Viktor’s mouth went dry. “I’ll be going in…”

“Alone,” said Marius quietly. “If you can handle it.”

“Yes.” Viktor straightened his spine. He had more gold medals than most athletes ever laid eyes on, he held the free skate, short program, _and_ combined score records, dammit, not to mention the fact that he had died and then come back. This should be easy. “I can handle it.”

“We can’t protect her forever,” he reminded Viktor. “She probably won’t want to cooperate, but you _have_ to get her out. It’s the only way.”

Viktor flinched. He wanted to say he understood, but something stopped him, something that wasn’t exactly fear, but a growing unease.

“How did you know she was staying here?” Viktor asked cautiously.

“We don’t have time for this,” said Marius. “If you’re backing out, don’t waste the whole night.”

He almost didn’t notice the soft rustle of leaves. Marius, however, whipped around before stepping closer to Viktor.

“You said you weren’t followed,” he snarled, his voice so low that Viktor almost couldn’t make out the words.

_I couldn’t have been, I wasn’t – was I?_

He opened his mouth to protest. It had to be a hedgehog, he thought, or possibly a fox.

That was when the crossbow bolt slammed into the tree behind him.

* * *

_This would be a good time to run,_ Viktor thought. Instead, he could only stare in shock as a figure slipped from the shadows.

            Marius recoiled.

            “You _lied,_ ” he breathed. “You set this up, didn’t you? I should have known that no one could be that stupid. You and your sob story and your fucking baby squirrels.”

            Viktor was frozen in horror. Seconds passed in skips and jumps, the hunter crossing half the clearing in an instant, reaching for a knife in slow motion.

            “I didn’t, I didn’t know! We can explain,” he whispered urgently as Marius sank into a crouch, eyes fixed on the approaching stranger. “The other vampire – if they’ll just listen for a minute-“

            “If you want to survive, _fight.”_

Marius leapt.

Viktor wanted to look away, sure that it would be over in an instant, that no human could face a vampire, but he couldn’t even blink as the two collided. They met with a _snick_ of metal, a blade appearing in Marius’s hand as if by magic.

_Why would a vampire carry a knife?_

The hunter’s weapon skimmed across a pale arm, drawing a gasp and several drops of viscous blood, before it was sent flying into the air with a strike too fast for Viktor’s eyes to follow.

_The murdered man was stabbed._

The knife lay only a couple of meters away. He reached for it, dreamlike.

_He found the witness._

Marius lunged, tearing a strip of fabric to reveal a metallic mesh of protective gear beneath the dark coat.

_He was waiting for her._

Viktor’s hand closed around the hilt of the dagger, skin stinging and blistering where it brushed briefly against the metal blade. Silver, he realized.

_I won’t let this happen again._

It wasn’t anything like a dance, though they twisted and weaved with sickening, synchronized grace. Marius’s back was to Viktor, giving him a view of the hunter’s face, whose umber skin was damp and flushed with exertion. The misaimed crossbow bolt was the beginning and end of fight – these last few minutes would not change the inevitable outcome, unless…

 _If you want to survive,_ fight.

Marius arched backwards for an instant before crumpling. Viktor released the knife and stumbled away, shaking, trying to run, but found himself leaning against a tree and retching, clutching the rough bark.

He could never be a hero.

The slayer drew nearer, stopping only a few meters away. The outlines of their body, and the numerous weapons they doubtlessly carried, were hidden beneath the bulky clothing.

From the moment he woke up, Viktor was a monster. He shouldn’t have tried to fight it. He should give up.

But he couldn’t.

As their gazes met, Viktor pulled himself upright, ignoring his trembling muscles. He was unarmed, but he wasn’t helpless, would never be again.

He snarled a warning.

“You just stabbed him.” Their voice, accented with a subtle lilt, was curious and not quite threatening. “Why?”

A gasping sob tore from Viktor’s throat. _Marius was- he had- the attack, the woman, the hotel, and Viktor was_ helping _him-_

“Hey. What happened?” The words were gentler than before, like someone soothing a frightened animal. “I won’t hurt you. Just tell me what’s going on.”

Viktor didn’t move, not trusting himself to speak, not sure if he could.

“You didn’t want to hurt anyone, is that it?” Viktor nodded slowly, and his eyes widened as they continued, “You didn’t know what he was doing. You’re not a killer.”

He couldn’t help looking over at Marius, lying prone on the grass where he’d fallen.

“You saved me,” they insisted. “And the woman who saw him that night, as well as everyone else he would have hurt. And- and yourself, too. He wouldn’t have let you go.”

“He was-“ whispered Viktor, shoulders sagging. “He was using me.”

“Yes. I’m sorry.” The hunter sighed. “Was he… the one who turned you?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” Panic began to bubble through his veins again. “Why are you- I’m-“

“It wasn’t your fault. None of this was your fault.”

“Does it matter?” Viktor laughed, dry and humorless. “I’m still a monster.”

“Because you’re a… he’s the only other vampire you’ve met? Besides, you know.”

Viktor noticed that he was sitting on the ground, without realizing he’d moved.

“I didn’t want their company.”

“You’ve had some crappy luck.” They lifted their hands slowly, showing Viktor empty palms. “I’m going to come closer, if that’s okay.”

Trust was what had gotten him into this mess in the first place. Tension flooded his body, but he was still too tired and overwhelmed to move; Viktor wondered, briefly, how he’d manage to make it to shelter before dawn.

He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life, however long it was, hiding from every kindness. He nodded.

They kneeled beside him, not close enough to touch, but near enough that he could make out the neat coils of their short dark hair.

“You’re the same person you always were.” They sat back on their heels. “He was, too.”

“I thought vampires were, um… evil.”

“No more than humans.” They smiled a little at his expression. “You’re just a bit more, well, dramatic, sometimes.”

“… Oh.” Maybe trust _wasn’t_ the problem here. “I- thank you. I’m Viktor.”

“Eren.” Viktor tilted his head, and they let out an actual laugh. “I know that look. The night you’ve had, and you’re thinking about _gender?”_

He rubbed his eyes, a little sheepish. It did seem a little silly, considering that he was a mythical creature.

“Thank you, Eren.”

“Do you have a place to go?” Eren asked. “My partner should be here soon, to help with, uh, cleanup. I can walk you back when she gets here, if you want. Or find… people who can help you.”

Viktor thought about the subway station, his few possessions hidden in a dusty corner, before his mind drifted back to a tiny, cramped bookstore tucked into an alleyway’s blank wall.

“Vampires.” He tried out the word, letting it roll across his tongue for the first time without venom or fear. “I don’t think I can… not yet. But there’s a place I can go.”

He did, after all, need a job, and Renée’s shelves required some serious alphabetizing.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by madimation, who can be found here and on tumblr.

Viktor considered what he knew.

            First, Yuuri seemed genuinely interested in his research. It was something more than a means to an end (or rather, someone _else’s_ end) – there was a spark of passion. Second, the two hunters did not appear to actually be _hunting,_ as such. They showed very little interest in searching for specific individuals, but instead focused on new threads of information to tug and worry. Third, this collection of knowledge would be the holy grail of amateur slayers, allowing them to learn to kill before nuance and compassion. Viktor shuddered to think of the inevitable bloodshed, driven by ignorance, fear, and hatred.

            And fourth, that such a work, in the right hands, could as easily be a lifeline as a knife to the heart. The inherent danger of traveling, with its strange territory and unpredictable circumstances, was a deterrent that had heretofore successfully prevented most vampires from forming a community outside of their immediate area, leaving their collective knowledge fragmented, continually lost and rediscovered.

            Some would view it as an unacceptable break from tradition, the passing down of information between generations – but many others would count their losses, the majority of their kind who never made it past the first few years, and take that chance.

            No more kneeling beside fresh graves, fighting down a rising flood of uncertainty and tentative grief. Another shield against near misses (and worse), when experience failed.

            A way to catch those who fell through the cracks when they woke up alone and bewildered in the cellar of an abandoned warehouse.

            Katsuki Yuuri wanted to help people. To save them.

            Maybe Viktor could stop him from doing just the opposite – or maybe, just maybe, he could convince Yuuri that there was a better way. A safer way.

            Because, fifth, the life of a vampire hunter was to kill or be killed.

* * *

          Myshónok and Zoyenka sprawled across Otabek’s lap. He matched his breaths to the steady tempo of their purrs and draped his arm loosely over Yuri’s sleeping form.

            _He’s okay, he’s here, I can wake him up._

Not that he would have the heart to do so. A tiny scowl creased Yuri’s forehead as Otabek carefully set the orange cat on the floor after Myshónok rolled over with a squeaky chirp. _Not quite asleep yet,_ Otabek determined. He swung his legs up onto the couch. Zoyenka stretched out to take full advantage of the space, kicking Yuri in the process. He mumbled something unintelligible but obviously vulgar before relaxing again.

            The movie played on. Otabek couldn’t understand more than a word here and there – neither of them had noticed it defaulted to German – and the soothing drone began to lull him into a doze.

            He thought about turning it off, so as to not disturb Yuri with the noise, but decided to let it play on. Yuri had always been able to sleep through anything, after all; once he was out, it would take an army to rouse him again.

            The soundtrack rose and fell, just loud enough to let him forget the uncanny hush of Yuri’s body as Otabek drifted into a muzzy drowse. He wouldn’t sleep – the night was too pleasant to interrupt with the vivid dreams that would inevitably creep from the edges of his mind.

            Otabek smiled down at Yuri through half-lidded eyes. His expression was peaceful once more, somehow miles away from the unnatural tranquility he’d worn in the moment that Otabek had, for years, thought of as _the last time I’ll ever see him._

            Nothing was the same, but… maybe it didn’t have to be _._

* * *

           _I need a plan,_ thought Viktor, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling.

            He sighed. Planning was not, he admitted, his strongest skill - it tended to go awry with breakneck speed. Viktor’s style leaned more towards spontaneity; he was happiest when he could surprise everyone, including himself, and he could usually roll with the punches until they carried him up mountains.

            And of course, when that wasn’t enough, he was _very_ good at convincing others to play along.

 

 **VN:** Christophe! My old friend. My partner in crime. I have a request.

 **CG:** a booty call? ;)

 **CG:** …

 **CG:** this better be a booty call and not more of your drama

 **VN:** Define ‘drama.’

 **CG:** that. that right there. that’s drama, i can smell it.

 **CG:** come to berlin, you said! it’ll be fun, you said! it’ll involve chasing down puppy-sized tarantulas with separation anxiety because a witch got drunk, you didn’t say.

 **VN:** You sound stressed, Chris.

 **CG:** you have no idea.

 **VN:** Oh, I’d disagree.

 **CG:** ten euros says that my week has been weirder than yours

VN: I will take that bet. Ten euros AND a favor. You go first.

            While waiting for Chris to reply, Viktor rolled out of bed and started downstairs, hauling the vacuum with him. Yuri’s ungainly little orange cat had given him a look of utter betrayal when Viktor carried him downstairs. Despite Myshónok’s lifelong hatred of any and all loud noises, he insisted on staying in the one room in the house that was vacuumed with any regularity.

            His phone buzzed.

 

 **CG:** puppy. sized. tarantulas. in mitte. need i say more?

 **VN:** Yuri hugged me today.

 **CG:** … are you sure he hasn’t been possessed? i know a good exorcist.

 **CG:** however, ten kilo spiders, attempting to cuddle.

 **VN:** His friend also told me, and I quote, that he “owes me a life debt.”

 **CG:** yuri has a friend??

 **VN:** Be nice. Yuri has friends.

 **CG:** ok, ok. but you’re gonna have to try harder. three people pledged their lives to me today after i saved them from overly affectionate arachnids.

 

            Viktor stuffed the vacuum back into the hall closet. He could hear a movie playing in the living room, and his curiosity _didn’t_ get the better of him – he just wanted to look for Myshónok.

            He peeked through the doorway and gasped softly, smiling to himself.

            _This happened fast._

            After quickly snapping a picture, Viktor crept back out, circling the empty spot in the photo (what he wouldn't give for someone to invent a method of photographing vampires, just for this moment) and scrawling in a label: _Yuri is here._

            This was going to be printed out and taped to every wall in the house.

            He sent it to Chris.

 

 **CG:** holy shit

 **CG:** and he looks really familiar. i know that undercut.

 **CG:** who is that?

 **VN:** Otabek, Yuri’s friend. You’ve probably met before.

 

**_Venmo_ **

_Christophe Giacometti has paid you_ _€10._

****

Viktor smirked, starting to compose a text that was maybe a little more smug than it had to be, before his phone started ringing. He declined the call before it could wake up Otabek and Yuri and ran outside, closing the door moments before the screen lit up again.

 

            “Hey, Chris. Looks like you owe me a favor.”

            “What the _fuck,_ Viktor?” His voice was verging on hysterical. “Why is Otabek Altin, official cryptid of figure skating, _in your house?”_

            “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you about it when I know what’s going on,” he replied. “Anyway, about why I texted you…”

            “I don’t know how you get yourself into these things,” Christophe groaned. “You have another one of your _plans,_ don’t you?”

            “No, I do not,” Viktor said. He heard Chris release a sigh of relief, before adding, “I have an _idea._ The plan is what I need you for.”

            “I really, really wish this was a booty call. Is this about Otabek and Yuri? Because I, uh, do not want to get into that mess without all the information.”

            “Er, no. It’s actually about those vampire hunters from last week.”

            The line was silent for a minute.

            “Did something happen?”

            “Nothing bad! They’re doing research,” he added hurriedly. “They’re not a threat right now. They’re… nice people.”

            He winced. That had come out wrong.

            “Viktor,” Chris growled, “please tell me you’re calling because you want me to help you _stop_ them doing research, and not because you’ve done something completely stupid.”

            “Well, um…”

            “Goddammit.” There was a soft _thunk_ that sounded suspiciously like Chris slamming his head against a wall. “What do you want me to do?”

            “So, I don’t exactly want to _stop_ them from doing research,” he said carefully. “More like, convince them to do research for us, instead.”

            “They’re _hunters,_ for god’s sake!” Chris lowered his voice. “You of all people should know that this – _all_ of this – is a bad idea.”

            “I, of all people, should know that there’s more to it than that,” Viktor replied, biting down the edge in his words. “Besides, we need this, and up until now, we just haven’t had the resources or the people to pull something like this off.”

            “It’s too much of a risk.” Chris’s tone turned harsh. “You’re not only putting yourself in danger here. What about Yuri?”

            Viktor recoiled. “Don’t you _dare,_ Christophe. I would never have done this if I thought there was a chance he could get hurt.” He reigned in his temper. “You know what happened to me, after I turned. What something like this could have been, for me. But it’s not just that.”

            “Then what is it?”

            “Do you remember when Yuri went for a walk in the rain,” responded Viktor, his voice shaking slightly, “and he almost didn’t come home? I didn’t know. Something that small… just because I always wear a raincoat.”

            “I remember,” murmured Chris. With the two words, his resistance shattered. “Fine. I’ll help you.”

* * *

         Waking up held none of the dizzy, disjointed confusion that had plagued him _before,_ the mental checklist of _where when what who_ as his sluggish mind catalogued reality, but the soft fuzziness of sleep remained.

            _This is why cats purr,_ Yuri thought, as he let the world drift back. Gentle fingers stroked his hair; he could hear Zoyenka rumbling like a tiny, happy engine nearby. Yuri stretched, snuggling closer to the warmth radiating from Otabek’s body, utterly content.

… until Otabek pulled his hand away.

“Put it _back,_ ” mumbled Yuri, grasping blindly for the offending wrist.

“Most people would say _good morning,_ ” replied Otabek, his smirk audible as he started to run his fingers through Yuri’s hair again.

Yuri opened his eyes, squinting against the television’s bright light, which was still playing, unheeded. “It’s morning already?”

“About four thirty.”  

_I didn’t sleep that long, then. Maybe an hour._

“Only you would consider four thirty ‘morning,’” Yuri grumbled, shifting to look up at Otabek, who was now lying beside him. The space between them was relaxed and comfortable, free of the barriers that had been built. Or rather, most of them. “Hey, Otabek.”

“Yeah?” Otabek’s eyes were half-closed, a little unfocused; he’d been napping too.

“What- what happened in Malmö?” Yuri bit his lip. “How did you… get away?”

Walls slammed down, sheer and impenetrable. Otabek’s face hardened into the same blank mask he’d worn that night in the city, pulling off his helmet. He sat up, disturbing Zoyenka, who woke up and scurried out of the room.

 _‘What the_ hell _are you?’_

His body tensed, closing in on itself until he was pressed against the arm of the sofa, as far as he could get from Yuri.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Otabek said, his voice rough.

The words were a punch to the gut. Yuri jerked himself upright, willing down the tendrils of fear snaking up his body.

_I shouldn’t have asked I should have left it alone I don’t want to know I don’t want to know what would have happened if-_

“Viktor said you weren’t. You weren’t really going to,” Yuri choked out, before the words failed him. _That you weren’t going to attack me,_ he pleaded silently.

Otabek, who had been staring at his clenched fists, looked up with a start. His eyes were black against ashen skin, pupils nearly swallowing the warm brown irises.

“You’re not-“ he took a deep breath. Yuri heard it catch in his throat. “You’re not really asking about Malmö.”

“It was the same thing,” Yuri whispered. “From your perspective.”

“Yuri, no. _No._ It wasn’t the same thing. This was- this was you.”

“You didn’t know that.” He picked at a stray thread in the cushion, unraveling it millimeter by millimeter. “I don’t blame you, I didn’t- it’s what it looked like.”

He reached out. Otabek flinched back and shook his head, an apology in his eyes.

            “I can’t. I’m sorry. Not right now.” He took a deep breath. “In Malmö, I… I didn’t...”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Yuri said softly. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

The pressure in the room eased slightly.

“You spent the whole day- all _week,_ thinking that I was going to…” Otabek closed his eyes for a moment, steadying himself. “Viktor didn’t tell you what happened?”

“Not really,” said Yuri with a quiet laugh. “He told me you weren’t a threat, after you two talked. Viktor’s not always great at explaining things.”

“That’s mostly what we discussed. I didn’t understand what happened, why I freaked out. I didn’t even mean to change.”

“You transform by accident sometimes?” Yuri blinked. “Sorry. Go on.”

“Not as much, now. My control is a lot better than it used to be.” Otabek blushed slightly. “But it still happens sometimes, when I’m really stressed. Or scared.”

“You were scared of me,” he murmured.

“Yes. No.” He stood, pacing back and forth across the carpet. “It didn’t matter. Viktor said that it’s a werewolf trait not to fight if we don’t have to. It’s a better survival strategy to run away, unless we’re cornered. Or protecting something. Someone.”

The last fragment of fear began to melt. “What do you-“

“The wolf was a lot smarter than me. It knew you were… _you,_ somehow.” The ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Part of me did, or at least hoped, even if I wouldn’t- couldn’t- admit it.”

“Oh my god, Beka.” Yuri tried to stifle a slightly hysterical giggle, with marginal success. “You were trying to-“

Otabek groaned, his agitated steps slowing. “We’ve established that I’m not good at things.”

“So if Viktor hadn’t shown up when he did, you…”

“Would have probably tried to lick your face, make sure you were okay.” Otabek’s blush was back, deepening from dusty pink to scarlet. “Or passed out. I was pretty close to that already.”

“You’re ridiculous.” His stomach lurched suddenly. Yuri pushed himself off the sofa, careful to leave Otabek enough space. “What if… what if it hadn’t been me?”

A hollow laugh, barely loud enough to be heard, slammed into Yuri’s chest and Otabek shrugged. “I would’ve been screwed.”

Fury bubbled in his veins. Yuri took a moment to relish the sensation, realizing suddenly that he hadn’t been mad at Otabek, truly _angry,_ until this moment – hurt, afraid, bitter, yes, but actual rage… not for years. He narrowed his eyes. How could Otabek say that like it didn’t even matter?

“Self sacrifice isn’t a good look on you, Altin,” he growled.

“I couldn’t hurt you,” replied Otabek with infuriating calm.

“I don’t need anyone to die for me!” He clenched his fists. “Why did you even come back, if you thought I was- did you _want_ to get yourself killed?”

Otabek’s eyes widened, shocked, his defiant stance crumbling. “No! God, no.“ He ran his fingers through his hair. “I wasn’t planning to let you see me, but when I found you, I couldn’t think. I just- I had to know. What happened to you, if there was the slightest chance…”

Yuri’s wrath burned itself out as quickly as it had come, leaving only the embers of concern. “You’re an idiot. A misguided noble idiot.”

The answering smile was tiny and broken, yet unbearably smug.

“Don’t give me that look,” snapped Yuri, but his own mouth tugged upwards. Otabek’s grin widened.

“You think I’m noble, huh?”

“That is _not-_ I think you’re a moron!”

“Nope, you can’t take it back now,” Otabek teased. “You said I’m noble.”

“Shut up, asshole.”

Otabek held out his arms. Yuri stepped forward, pressing his face into silky black hair as he was pulled into a hug. Otabek’s shoulders rose and fell with the rhythm of his breath, and Yuri’s fingers lightly traced the thin ridges that threaded across his back – _more scars,_ he realized, remembering the brief glimpse of Otabek’s chest that he’d caught in the bathroom earlier.

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” he whispered. _Not because of me. Not again._ All at once, Otabek seemed fragile, like he might break if Yuri held him too tightly.

_You’ve been through hell and back, Beka, with the scars to prove it – don’t pretend otherwise, even if you can’t tell me what happened. But, god knows how, you’re still functioning._

He felt as if one of them was a drowning man, and the other the safety of shore being desperately clung to. Yuri wasn’t sure which he was.


	19. Chapter 19

“Yura,” whispered Otabek, “Your cat is yowling at me.”

His eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness of Yuri’s room, until he could make out Yuri’s form under the heap of blankets. His hair was magnificently disheveled, frizzing out from the loose braid into a feathery halo. He mumbled something into the pillow.

“I thought she might want food or something.” The cat – Calla, Otabek thought – jumped from his arms and onto Yuri’s back. Yuri groaned and rolled over.

“She’s just an asshole,” he repeated. The cat walked across his face and mewled plaintively until Yuri scratched her chin. Otabek sat down on the edge of the bed, the tension in his chest easing.

_Just a dream._

“Sorry for waking you up.” It was barely midafternoon, but Otabek already knew he wouldn’t fall asleep again. He started to stand up –

Yuri’s hand found his arm. “Stay,” he mumbled.

Otabek stayed.

* * *

“What is _this_?” Yuri held the backpack as if he expected it to bite. Otabek sipped his coffee, one eyebrow lifted a fraction of a millimeter; Viktor couldn’t pretend to parse his inscrutable expressions (or, if he was being more accurate, _expression,_ singular), but he was reasonably certain that Otabek was silently laughing at Yuri’s offended sneer.

“Your supply bag, obviously. You and Otabek are going to go out and have fun tonight,” replied Viktor. “See the city. Find a club. _Not_ get hit by cars.”

Yuri narrowed his eyes accusingly. “You’re _scheming._ You want us out of the house.”

“Well, if you want to stay home, I’m sure Chris would love to chat.” Viktor blinked innocently.

“We’re going.”

The threat of socializing – and okay, Viktor had to admit that Christophe did go out of his way to tease Yuri – was enough to get the boys out of the house with minimal protests.

Of course, this was Yuri.

“Yura, don’t forget your bag,” Viktor reminded him.

Yuri rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t _forgetting_ it.”

“I’m not going to argue with you-“ Yuri smirked at him- “because you don’t have a choice. You’re bringing it.”

He scowled at Viktor, who braced himself for the inevitable argument, before Otabek took the pack from his outstretched hand without a word and hooked it over Yuri’s shoulder. Yuri’s mouth snapped shut.

 _Wow,_ Viktor thought to himself, but out loud, he simply said “Let me know if you want a ride home later.”

“Beka, we’re taking your bike, right?” He cast a hopeful glance at Otabek, who reached for his keys before grimacing.

“Sorry. Only one helmet. I forgot.”

Yuri pouted. “But I don’t _need_ a-“

Otabek shook his head, the movement almost imperceptible - and that, apparently, was that.

At least _someone_ had some sense - even if Viktor was struggling to reconcile the confused, anxious kid he’d first met with the young man who steadfastly insisted that vampires had to wear motorcycle helmets.

“Can you drive anything other than a bike? Do you have a license?”

Viktor received a bewildered nod as a reply.

“Just automatic?”

Otabek looked horrified and slightly offended at the suggestion, as if Viktor had casually asked if he mugged little old ladies in his spare time. “I prefer manual.”

“Great!” Viktor removed his car keys from a hook beside the door and tossed them to Otabek, who snagged them gracefully from the air before almost dropping them in surprise a moment later.

Yuri’s jaw dropped. “What the fuck, you never let _me_ drive!”

Viktor pushed them out the door.

* * *

“Holy _shit_ ,” gasped Yuri, dissolving into breathless giggles. “Are you sure you actually have a license?”

Despite his teasing, he had to admit that Otabek was a good driver – he always had been, although Yuri’s experiences, with a mere handful of exceptions, were on his motorcycle.

However, Otabek also really liked driving.

Specifically, he liked driving fast.

When they emerged from the narrow, winding forest road and Otabek’s eyes brightened as he took in the deserted streets crisscrossing a patchwork cluster of moonlit fields, Yuri grinned and rolled down his window.

“I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to turn like that in a car.”

Otabek patted the steering wheel. “It’s a _nice_ car,” he protested. “It was built for this.”

“You’re the only person I know who actually took a class to learn how to drive like an adrenaline junkie,” Yuri retorted.

“That was defensive driving,” groaned Otabek. “And it was my mom’s idea anyway.”

“And once again, you _almost_ manage to be cool,” he snorted back. “You pretend to be Mad Max… because your mom made you take a driving course.”

“Hey, my mom is cooler than anyone else you have ever met, and you know it.”

“Okay, fair,” acquiesced Yuri. The fields faded into the more residential outskirts, and Otabek slowed to what felt like a comparative crawl. “But it’s not genetic.”

“You wound me, Yura.”

“How is your family, anyway?”

Otabek smiled fondly. “They’re good. My younger sister started university last year. Photojournalism, in London.”

“Your other sister, she’s still married, right?”

“Yeah,” Otabek replied. He kept his eyes on the road, but Yuri could see the gleam of pride that shone whenever Otabek talked about his family. “Aisulu has two kids now. Twins. They moved in next to my parents. Äke was thrilled. He took it harder than анам when Zhibek went to England.”

“Oh my god, Beka, you’re an _uncle?_ How old are they?”

“Two in January.” He pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and tossed it to Yuri, who held it uncertainly. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to make you look at pictures. I know how you feel about kids. Just. Um. I don’t have your new number.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” He lifted the phone. “It’s locked.”

“Same code as before. Zero three-”

“- zero one. You never… you didn’t change it?” Yuri’s fingers trembled slightly as he typed in the numbers. “It’s in Kazakh. Is ‘contacts’ the face icon or the book one?”

“Uh, the face.” Otabek parked, slipping deftly into a spot on the edge of the street, only a few scant centimeters from the cars in front and behind. “Your backpack,” he prompted.

Yuri grabbed the bag with a huff and returned Otabek’s phone. A few seconds later, his own mobile buzzed in his pocket.

 

 _Unknown number:_ hi

* * *

Chris, as usual, did not knock. Viktor looked up as he sauntered into the library and dropped a bottle of whiskey and a glass tumbler onto the table with a loud _thunk_.

Viktor eyed the alcohol warily. “Don’t get me wrong, I love drunk Chris, but-“

“Pssh.” Chris flapped his hand dismissively. “All my best plans involve alcohol, one way or another.”

“Your best plans, like bringing a stripper pole to the Grand Prix gala?”

“Exactly,” he said with a wink. “It was a damn shame I never got a chance to use it that night. However, _this-“_ he tapped the bottle, “is to stop me from coming to my senses and moving permanently to the Summer Court.”

Chris poured himself a generous measure of whiskey. “So, catch me up.” Viktor obliged, providing a brief overview of what he knew about Yuuri Katsuki, and Chris hummed quietly to himself. “Interesting. What about his companion?”

“Cheerful. Engaged, but less emotionally invested than Yuuri appears to be,” he replied, resting his chin in his hands. “He seems to be acting primarily as a translator, but he moves like an athlete – maybe a fighter, maybe not, but he’s fast and definitely hiding some old injuries that could be hunting related.”

“He sounds like the dangerous one, then,” said Chris, casting a sidelong glance at Viktor. “Why are you focusing on Yuuri? Is he hot?”

“Well, _yes,_ but-“

Chris cocked an eyebrow and downed the rest of his drink. “But?”

“Yuuri is… I’ve never met anyone like him before,” Viktor murmured dreamily. “He’s passionate. He’s committed. And when he talks about his research, it’s like- like he’s turning into music. You can’t help but care about it too.” He locked eyes with Chris. “If we can convince Yuuri, we’ve got them both.”

* * *

“You still don’t drink, right?” Yuri checked the map on his phone.

“I don’t imbibe the pain juice, no,” replied Otabek. “Why?”

“I’m kind of, um, banned from all the bars in Berlin. I mean, not the human ones, but- hey, it’s not funny.”

“Of course not, I wouldn’t laugh at you,” Otabek managed, turning his chuckle into a half-hearted cough. “How did you manage that?”

“Some guy was being an asshole, and I told him so.” Yuri scuffed the sole of his shoe against the sidewalk. “Um. Furniture might have been involved. You saw the video. They said I-“

“Attracted too much attention?” Otabek glanced over at Yuri, who looked both defiant and embarrassed, though his face was mostly hidden by the hood of his black jacket.

“Basically, yeah. So if you wanted a drink, we’d have to go to a normal place, and I don’t really like being around too many… you know. People.”

“I get that,” Otabek said quietly. It wasn’t a topic he wanted to dwell on. “I bet I’m banned from more bars than you are.”

“ _You?_ Banned for what, not drinking?”

“I didn’t make great first impressions, and I wasn’t very careful about where I went.” He tugged sheepishly at the cuffs of his jacket. “I kind of just… wandered in and stared at people. They wanted me to leave, but they weren’t very good at using their words. So the night usually ended with a few broken bottles and me getting thrown out on the street and told to never come back.”

“They _attacked_ you?” Yuri’s eyes were wide with horror, and Otabek backtracked quickly.

“Not really?” He ducked his head as Yuri scowled ferociously. “They weren’t really trying to hurt me, mostly, they just wanted to be left alone before I did something that got everyone noticed by the wrong people. And I was acting… well, tough, I guess, so they maybe didn’t realize I wasn’t as strong as they thought.”

“Oh, shit,” groaned Yuri. “You just went into the first place you stumbled on, didn’t you? The ones that were already barely managing to hide.”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” he protested. _New subject, new subject._ “So, what’s in your backpack?”

Yuri, unfortunately, didn’t take the bait as he stopped walking and gave Otabek a probing stare. “That’s why you have all those scars.”

_You saw those, I guess._

“They look worse than they are,” he demurred, but found himself crumpling under Yuri’s fiery gaze. “Yeah. Mostly.”

The green eyes fell away from his face, releasing Otabek from where they’d pinned him to the street.

“Supplies.”

“Hmm?”

“The bag. In case of emergencies.” Yuri rolled his eyes derisively. “Viktor’s mad because I went into the city when he asked me to stay home.”

“What he said about getting hit by cars- I thought that was a joke?” He pulled in a deep breath, hooking his fingers around the sleeve of Yuri’s hoodie.

“It was just a bump.” His gloved fingers squeezed Otabek’s hand gently. “I’m pretty sure a car couldn’t actually hurt me, not seriously, anyway. She was parking, and I was crossing the street, and she couldn’t see me in the mirrors. It was actually right before you found me.”

“Yura, so you’re basically-“ _Indestructible. And I thought_ I _was tough._

“I just… there’s other stuff we have to worry about.” He swung the backpack off his shoulder and unzipped it, removing the contents item by item. “Gloves, to help with the- the allergies, we call them. A portable charger in case my phone dies. Extra cash, change for a payphone, and a list of numbers and addresses.” Yuri tugged a tightly sealed travel mug from the side pocket and shook it. “Um, snacks.” He stuffed it back out of sight. “A rain jacket, a city map, a public transport map, and finally-“ A bundle of stiff, shiny cloth appeared.

“Is that a _tarp?_ ”

“Uh huh. I dunno, Viktor has a thing about tarps,” Yuri said, rezipping the bag. “It’s a last resort. In case I can’t get somewhere safe before sunrise.”

“That’s… that’s a lot.” Otabek tried to shake himself out of his daze; he hadn’t realized how confined Yuri was by the world, or the scope of the freedom he himself had taken for granted.

“It can be. It was a lot to get used to.” Yuri shrugged the overstuffed bag back onto his shoulders and pulled his hood farther over his face. “I know I give him shit, but… I owe Viktor a lot. I had- it was bad, for a long time. At the rink, with the-“ he gestured to his head, and Otabek could almost feel the golden strands of Yuri’s hair against his skin- “It was the first thing I thought of, because I would… I had panic attacks, where I- I was suddenly convinced I was still lying on the ice, and everything was some vivid hallucination, and I was-“ Yuri closed his eyes for a moment before continuing. “And that helped me calm down, remember that I was safe.”

“Yura-“ Otabek willed away the tears prickling in his eyes. “I’m…”

“Don’t,” Yuri said softly. “I just wanted you to- I know that some things really fucking suck and you’re not always okay, and you don’t have to be.”

Otabek couldn’t reply – the words died in his throat before they even formed. He was shaken from his thoughts when Yuri’s hand found his again.

“I’m cold. Do your thing.”

“You can’t have this back,” Otabek said as their fingers laced together. “It’s mine now.”

* * *

Chris sprawled across the table, clutching the half empty bottle of whiskey in one hand and a pen in the other. Pages torn from a myriad of notebooks littered the room, covered with scribbled notes and angry slashes.

“You could always seduce him, Viktor,” he drawled. “Use your masculine wiles.”

Viktor sighed. “We’re already dating, so I think we’re past that point.”

“You’re _what?”_ Chris sat up angrily, nearly toppling onto the floor in the process. “You just failed to mention this until now?”

“It didn’t come up.”

“You are _so lucky_ that the laws of hospitality won’t let me break this bottle over your head,” he slurred. “First of all, your brain is made of rocks. Second, I am your best friend and you didn’t tell me you have a boyfriend? I need gossip, Viktor. I need it to live.”

“Well, now you know,” Viktor replied airily. “Let’s get a little more done before you pass out, and then you can have the details.”

“Won’t do me much good if I’m unconscious,” grumbled Chris. “Okay. You said Yuuri likes Yuri?”

“It was a little rough in the beginning, but yes, he does. Yurio seems rather taken with Yuuri, too. Why do you ask?”

“And Yuuri seems genuinely sympathetic at times?”

“Yes, he does.” Viktor narrowed his eyes. “What are you suggesting?”

Chris shrugged. “Tell him about Yuri, the early months. The rain, the food problem, leaving Russia. Not how you were involved in all of this. If he’s actually fond of the kid, that should bring him around – and if it doesn’t, he’s a lost case anyway.”

Viktor stiffened. “How about _no_ ,” he suggested, the soft tone laced with razors and poison. “Yuri is staying out of this. We are not using him as _bait._ ”

“Okay, okay,” Christophe relented, raising his hands in defeat. “It was just an idea- _oh.”_ He smirked. “Oh, you’re going to like this one. Or not. But _I_ do. Well, drunk me does. Sober me is going to be pissed.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **BONUS:** I wrote an April Fools' Day one-shot about Otabek and Yuri that is compliant with the universe for this story, so if you want some mostly fluffy character background, please check out [**A Dangerous Game**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10521141).

_September 1981_

Viktor Nikiforov (no patronymic, _thank you very much_ ) was twenty seven years old.

He was, in a stunning turn of events, a vampire.

He was also, in an even more stunning turn of events, back in Leningrad, hammering insistently on the door of an unfamiliar apartment.

It was well past midnight. He hoped that this was finally the right address – the previous residents he’d dropped in on were rather displeased to find a stranger on their doorstep at such a late hour – but it wasn’t _his_ fault that all his requests for directions had received a vague description and ended with a suspicious _‘excuse me, but who are you again?’_

Heavy footsteps stomped towards the door. “Damn kids, all hours of the night, I’m a coach, not a babysitter-“ A young man yanked the door open, scowling up at Viktor from under sleep-tousled blond hair. “What do you want _this_ ti- _Viktor?_ ”

“Hello, Yasha!” Viktor flashed a close-lipped grin at Yakov. “What’s up?”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Yakov practically spat the words at Viktor, grabbing him by the elbow and dragging him into the apartment.

 _Hmm,_ thought Viktor, _I guess an invitation doesn’t have to be verbal._

“I’m visiting!”

Blond and puce didn’t go well together, Viktor decided, dropping into an elegant, high-backed armchair. The seat was exactly as comfortable as it looked – which is to say, not at all.

“So, you moved,” he tried out.

Yakov’s scowl deepened. “Yes. We did.”

 _We._ He has a roommate, then. A roommate with expensive taste.

“How is the skating?”

“I’m retiring after this season.”

“ _What?_ ” Viktor gaped at him. “But you’re only twenty-three!”

“Twenty- _four_ ,” he growled back. “Older than most of the competition.”

“Oh. Well, happy birthday, then!” The silence deepened. Viktor sighed. “Yasha, I’m trying to make conversation, I need you to help me out here.”

“ _Conversation?”_ He was shouting now, a vein in his forehead beginning to throb. “Fine! How about you explain why you decided to-“ And here, his voice fell to a whisper before rising again- “to _defect,_ without so much as a word? Tell me, did you just _forget_ to say goodbye, or did you not trust me to keep my mouth shut? It’s not like I didn’t know what you were planning! We all did! And now you’re back in the USSR without so much as a warning, because Viktor Nikiforov would never think about anything so mundane as _consequences._ ”

Viktor’s stomach lurched. “I thought you would be-“ _worried about me-_ “Happy to see me. Everyone thought I just… defected?”

“What else would we think? It’s not like you didn’t get drunk every other week and spend hours telling me about how you were going to move to Switzerland and breed prize-winning poodles.” He caught Viktor’s gaze. “Are you telling me you _didn’t?”_

“Um, no, I guess I did, but,” Viktor winced, “It wasn’t exactly… planned?”

“And now you have the gall to wonder why I’m mad at you. You’re still a damn _child,_ you never grew up, and I’m starting to think that you never will,” Yakov said, his demeanor cooling from loud, explosive rage to something uncharacteristically hard and chilly.

 _A child._ The word cut Viktor to his core, and he opened his mouth to snap that he hadn’t simply left, he’d been murdered and turned into a vampire, he’d seen things that Yakov couldn’t even imagine, and he’d done everything necessary to survive for the past seven months. He wanted to ask if his friend could picture falling asleep as the sun rose, knowing that one mistake or unlucky break would result in a burning, inescapable death, or how it felt to look into the eyes of a hunter and see a monster reflected back at him.

Yakov interrupted the turmoil of his thoughts.

“Why are you really here? What do you want?”

“I wanted to see you,” Viktor replied coldly. “I was going to ask if you wanted to travel with me. And I was going to tell you… everything else.”

“You thought I would drop everything and leave with you,” sighed Yakov. “I have- I have a life here, Viktor. I tried to make you a part of it, but you made it clear that if my entire existence didn’t revolve around your whims, it wasn’t enough for you.”

“What are you talking about?” He scoffed. “You’re retiring in a few months. You’re in the same position I was.”

“No, I’m not, because I never expected the world to fall at my feet,” Yakov shouted back. “I’m a coach now, three days a week, and full time after Worlds, or even before, if I don’t qualify. I have friends here, friends who don’t run off and skip my wedding because they don’t like my fiancée.”

“You, um,” Viktor managed, “You got married. To Lilia?”

“Yes, I married Lilia.”

“… When?”

“January.” _Before he was turned._ “And I invited you in August. In person.”

“Right, right,” he said with a wince and an apologetic shrug. “I didn’t mean to miss it. Everything was so busy, and… you know how I forget things sometimes.”

“I know,” replied Yakov heavily, standing up from his chair. “And I know you’re not going to apologize, either. Viktor, I think you should leave.”

“What?”

“I can’t do this anymore. I can’t deal with your crises and drama when you’ll drop me as soon as something more interesting comes up.”

“You want me to-“ His eyes burned as he followed Yakov into the hallway. “Yasha, you’re my friend.”

“Whatever that means to you.” Yakov’s hand rested on the doorknob.

“I have to tell you something,” Viktor stammered. “I’m- I’m a vampire. I can prove it to you.”

“You don't have to prove anything to me,” Yakov snorted, rolling his eyes. “I’m not going to try to fix your life for you this time. You’re never going to change, but I have. I need you to go.”

Viktor caught Yakov’s wrist as he opened the door.

“How long?” He didn't let his voice crack, didn’t let Yakov see the hurt in his eyes. “How long do you want me gone, then?”

Yakov wouldn’t meet his eyes as he pulled his arm from Viktor’s grasp.

“Until the fall of communism.”

_Oh._

Viktor thought about the earth of the USSR beneath him, steadfast and determined. _Permanent,_ the politicians all said.

“Goodbye, Yakov.”

“Goodbye, Viktor.”

* * *

For most of his life, Viktor would have said that his life skills were limited to skating, great hair, and burning bridges.

The first time someone wandered into the little Paris bookshop (he had returned to France to nurse the wounds left by Yakov’s rejection) clutching a notebook whose yellowing pages were filled with cramped, spidery handwriting, he hadn’t paid much attention until Renée waved him over.

“It was my great-grandmother’s,” the visitor explained quietly as she ran her fingers across the cracked leather cover. “We found it while cleaning out the attic last week.”

“But you can’t read it?”

“No,” the woman sighed. “My grandfather was the last one in the family who spoke Russian. We were hoping you could help us find a trustworthy translator.”

Renée clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, Viktor, are you up to it?”

“My French still isn’t-“ He flinched under the twin stares of disappointment. “I can take a look at it?”

It felt nice to be useful. Viktor’s life had been spent _being_ helped, not the other way around, and lending a hand was… soothing. Or it would have been, if he didn’t spend half the time absolutely terrified of messing it up.

“- so this part is either a recipe for sbiten or some sort of spell, it depends on what this word is and whether your great-grandmother was the kind of person to insist on stirring her drink fifteen times clockwise with a cinnamon stick, and I have no idea if this part here is literal or a figure of speech because the Russian is really old-fashioned and some of it is basically a different dialect,” he babbled. “I really wouldn’t recommend trying out any of _these,_ though. I think I got the directions right, but, um, it seems like she was an intense lady and I’m pretty sure doing this to someone is very illegal. I just transliterated the names, so if you want me to go over them again, I can do that.”

“Thank you so much.” She beamed at him. “This means the world to us, it really does. We’ll pay you for your time, of course, but if there’s anything else I can do…”

Favors, it turned out, were more valuable than cash, and Viktor amassed quite a fortune over the following decade.

* * *

  


**END OF THE SOVIET UNION; The Soviet State, Born of a Dream, Dies**

_Sergei Schmemann,_ The New York Times

 

_MOSCOW, Dec. 25 – The Soviet State, marked throughout its brief but tumultuous history by great achievement and terrible suffering, died today after a long and painful decline…_

* * *

The phone rang. It had been ringing off the hook for the past week.  


“Is this Yakov Mikhailovich?”

“Yes. Who is this?” Yakov sighed heavily at the interruption. “If this is a social call, I’m afraid that I’m a little busy trying to get all my skaters back because _our country just collapsed.”_

“Oh, naturally, I can call back later-“

The voice was familiar. Something nagged at the back of Yakov’s mind, demanding his attention.

“What did you say your name was?”

“Right, I guess you didn’t recognize me,” replied the caller, a nervous chuckle crackling down the line. “This is Viktor. I, well, I know you were being metaphorical when you said to talk to you when communism fell, but...”

“Viktor?”

“Yes, um, Viktor Nikiforo-“

“I know your name, you bloody idiot!”

“Anyway, I was hoping…” Viktor laughed again, quietly, and let the sentence trail off. Yakov tried to picture his old friend’s hallmark doe-eyed innocent grin, but it didn’t quite fit with the more serious, older voice on the other end. “I was hoping that I could drop by sometime.”

* * *

“I was sure you’d come crawling back within the week, Vitya.” Yakov poured tea into delicate white cups. “You’d never listened to anyone except yourself.”  


Viktor stirred his drink slowly, not sure what else to do with it. “No one ever told me no like that before,” he replied softly. “It seemed like you meant it.”

“I did,” Yakov said bluntly. “Regretted it, too. Sometimes.”

“I’m really sorry about forgetting your wedding.” Viktor ran his hands along the edge of the table, tracing the dark curves of the wood. “I know that was just the last straw, but… I wish I’d been there. For you. And Lilia.”

Yakov gaped at him. “Did you just _apologize?_ ”

“It’s not that shocking, is it?” He smiled at Yakov’s raised eyebrows. “Well, I always did like to surprise people.”

“I never thought you would change,” said Yakov, shaking his head, “But you’re a completely different person. I wouldn’t have even recognized you, if you didn’t look exactly the same as you did ten years ago.”

“Well, about that. Um, do you remember what I said that night? The vampire thing?”

“Viktor.”

“And how I said I could prove it?”

“ _Vitya,_ you’re not seriously trying to-“

Viktor grinned sheepishly, allowing his fangs to gleam under the kitchen lights.

“… Surprise?”

* * *

“I’m going to mingle,” Viktor murmured into Christophe’s ear. “It’s been a while since I was at one of these.”  


“You’re going to _abandon_ me?” Chris pouted, widening his eyes to Bambi-like proportions. “I thought we had something special!”

“Oh, I know you just invited me so you’d have some arm candy for the gala,” replied Viktor, shoving his friend’s shoulder lightly. “Now go on, there are some sponsors wanting to kiss your medal.”

Long eyelashes fluttered as Chris’s expression shifted to a frankly indecent smolder. He smirked. “That’s not all they want to kiss.”

They parted ways; Chris headed for the bar (and an ice dancer he’d been making eyes at for the past hour), while Viktor strolled around the edges of the banquet hall. The skating scene had changed over the years – he’d never forget the moment he found out his longstanding records had been broken, or the first ratified quad – but, from the outside, it looked the same. Gangly teenagers pulled at the collars of scratchy suits, out of their element without blades under their feet as they made small talk with nameless, faceless, but _very important_ guests. Disappointed hopefuls nursed flutes of champagne in the corner, watching the medalists flash camera-ready smiles as they were congratulated on their victories.

The only thing missing was…

“Viktor,” growled Yakov with his usual gruffness though he was now grey-haired and balding, as he appeared at Viktor’s elbow, “What are you doing here?”

“You know, it would be nice if people said something like _hello_ or _how have you been,_ ” sighed Viktor. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your skaters? They did quite well.”

“Someone is going to recognize you, you moron!” Yakov buried his face – weathered, lined with new wrinkles - in his hands. “There are photographers everywhere!”

“People see what they expect to see, Yasha. No one will suspect a thing,” he said, patting Yakov’s shoulder. “After all, it’s been more than thirty years now. I’ll say I’m a relative, if anyone gets suspicious. Now, it took me three days in the back of a truck to get here, and I intend to make the most of it.”

Yakov rolled his eyes, but despite his gruff tone, soft pride shone in his eyes as he pointed out his skaters. Viktor recognized one from the television coverage, a dark haired young man named Georgi who had burst into tears after his short program to the announcers’ unsurprised dismay.

“That’s Mila, the redhead,” he said, gesturing to a laughing teenage girl who was pulling a young blond child onto the dance floor. “She’s trying for her senior debut next year.”

“You’ve mentioned her. Sounds like she’ll be a force to be reckoned with.”

Yakov groaned. “She already is.”

Viktor watched the young boy’s unfortunate bowl cut bounce as he struggled to escape from Mila, who was forcing him into a skipping, clumsy waltz. “They let people bring their kids now?”

“No, that’s the junior gold medalist, Yuri Plisetsky. He’s one of mine too.”

“Oh. So that’s the kid you were talking about,” mused Viktor. “He looks so… nice.”

“Hah,” snorted Yakov. “He turned his triple Salchow into a quad today.” He rubbed his temples. “Yuri’s a good kid – some of the time – but that _attitude._ He’ll be a legend, if he ever listens to anyone. Reminds me of someone else I knew. _”_

“He can’t be that bad, can he?”

“Remember what you put your first coach through?” Viktor winced at the memory as Yakov turned to wave Yuri over. The boy scowled at him for a moment, and Viktor thought he was going to ignore the request, but instead he yanked himself out of Mila’s grip and slouched over.

“What,” huffed Yuri, “Gonna yell at me again for winning?”

“The rule is no quads in-“ Yakov took a deep breath. “Yuri, this is Viktor. He wanted to meet you.”

Yuri shot them a look that said, with perfect clarity, _tell me why I should care._

“Hello, Yuri. Congratulations on your medal,” said Viktor. “You know, I used to get in trouble with my coaches too.”

“Quads?” Yuri lifted one eyebrow.

“Well, no…” Viktor bit the inside of his cheek. The first quad wasn’t landed until seven years after his retirement, and he couldn’t _say_ that, but his pride was stinging. “Tell you what, if you win gold at Worlds, _without_ quads, I’ll choreograph your senior debut. And I promise, I’m the best at what I do.”

Yakov’s eyes widened, but before he could make a sound, Yuri scoffed.

“If you were the best, I would have heard of you, _Viktor._ I’ll win gold, and I’ll do it however I want. I don’t need your program.”

 _Ouch._ Viktor’s mouth hung open slightly as the kid snorted again and turned on his heel.

“You know, Yuri,” Viktor called after him, “Your technical elements are impressive, but you skate with all the emotion of a brick.”

That hit a nerve.

“So?” Yuri snarled over his shoulder. “I won, didn’t I?”

“Jumps aren’t all there is to skating.” Viktor smiled gently at him, watching a red flush of anger creep over Yuri’s pale face. “Some people would say that if you need quads to win Juniors, you don’t deserve the medal at all.”

Green eyes narrowed, considering.

“Fine. When I get gold, you’d better give me a program I can win with for my debut.”

“I’ll give you a program,” replied Viktor. “The winning is up to you.”

 

Yakov blinked slowly at Yuri’s retreating back.

“Well, then,” he said.

“See?” Viktor smirked. “Not so bad. Maybe I should have become a coach too.”

“God, no,” Yakov grimaced. “Vitya… are you sure you can do it?”

Another hit to the ego. Viktor’s pride was going to be quite bruised by the end of the night.

“Yasha, I know it’s been a while, but I’ve kept up. You’ve _seen_ me skate,” Viktor said, sulking.

“No, I mean, can you- look, you still forget things. If you break this promise, Yuri would fly to Berlin to track you down. And I’d be stuck cleaning up the mess.”

“Don’t worry.” Viktor beamed at Yakov. “I won’t forget.”

* * *

“Yuri won Worlds last week.”  


Viktor held the cell phone between his shoulder and his ear as he carefully marked the page of his book and set it aside, raising his voice to be heard over the rumble of the road underneath. “You must be very proud of him.”

“Without quads.”

“That’s quite an accomplishment,” Viktor replied lightly, stretching his legs and inspecting the curve of his fingernails absentmindedly.

Yakov’s tone darkened. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

“Forgot what?”

The intake of breath was a black hole. _“Viktor,_ _I swear to-_ “

Viktor laughed.

“Don’t worry, I’m just kidding. I’m already on my way to St. Petersburg.”

* * *

Yuri eyed the house skeptically. The building wasn’t _quite_ what he’d pictured a vampire den would look like – the yellow stucco was disappointingly free of turrets and wrought iron, and the small garden was slightly overgrown but filled with hardy shrubs and night-blooming flowers instead of a tangled briar or ominous, skeletal trees.  


“So, this is home,” chirped Viktor as he unlocked the door.

Yuri rolled his eyes. “Really? I thought we were just stopping to take a look around.”

Viktor ignored the jibe and stepped inside. Yuri tried to follow, hauling his suitcase and Zoyenka’s carrier with him; as much as he didn’t want to be anywhere except his grandpa’s house in Moscow, the two day drive (and Viktor’s incessant attempts at casual conversation) had instilled a bone-deep weariness. All he could think about was a shower, getting something (hah, like he had a choice as to _what)_ to eat, and sleeping for the next fifteen hours.

An invisible force stopped him at the door – it wasn’t a barrier so much as that his feet simply refused to step over the thin strip of wood, and he stumbled to a halt. Zoyenka, already irritated by the indignation of her traveling cage, mewled plaintively at the abrupt stop.

“Oi,” Yuri shouted at Viktor’s retreating back, “What the fuck is this?”

Viktor glanced over his shoulder before hurrying back.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Yuri, that’s just the threshold. I guess the house didn’t get the memo.”

“The… threshold.”

“We need an invitation to go into someone else’s residence,” Viktor replied, shrugging. “It shouldn’t be a problem once you’re settled in. Please come in, Yuri.”

The soles of his shoes unglued themselves from the front step. Yuri tried to push away the sensation that the house itself was rejecting him.

 _You don’t belong here,_ it whispered to him.

 _I know,_ he thought back.

“So, Yuri, there’s an extra bedroom upstairs, but the basement is set up for guests too and I thought…” Viktor ran his fingers through his hair and continued, “I thought you might prefer that, at least for a while. You can take your pick.”

 

_Traveling meant sitting in a modified cargo container in the back of a semi, eyeing the entrance to a hidden smuggling hold just big enough for two or three people in case of inspections as they crossed a border. Airports, apparently, were out of the question – even if Yuri didn’t have a famous face, even if he had a passport that didn’t belong to a dead celebrity, even if the security scanners and sensors weren’t short-circuited by the same phenomenon that stole his reflection and every photograph he would ever take, delayed flights became a threat instead of an inconvenience._

_Thus, a two hour flight became a two day drive._

_Viktor’s phone chimed its daily alarm – half an hour to sunrise. Yuri tried to push his thoughts away and sleep, but they resurfaced again and again. Eventually, he turned to Viktor, who was absorbed in yet another book. Yuri patted the metal sheeting that surrounded them._

_“If anything happened to this, I’d die immediately?”_

_“I don’t know. I’ve never seen it happen.” Viktor winced slightly as he looked up. “I hope I never do.”_

_Yuri nodded, pulling his knees to his chest. Part of him wished that Viktor would lie, let him pretend that everything was still fine, still normal._

_“Here, Yuri.” A bundle of black fabric was pushed into his hands. “It’s a blackout sheet. We’re as safe as anyone else right now, but…” He smiled, but his eyes were clouded with something sad and shaking. Yuri looked away._

_“Thanks,” he muttered._

“It’s still early, so if you want to stretch your legs, we can go into the city for a while,” said Viktor, and Yuri bit down on another harsh remark. “Introduce you to people, see the tourist stuff.”

“I’m going to bed.” Even if he wasn’t exhausted, Yuri couldn’t deal with another second of Viktor’s infuriating cheerfulness. “The basement.”

“Oh, okay!” Was it Yuri’s imagination, or was the permanent smile finally flagging? “The kitchen is through there – I had a friend bring over groceries. There’s… food, and extra supplies for your cat.”

Maybe Viktor did have some redeeming qualities, Yuri decided.

Of course, he had to ruin it again.

“We should come up with a story for why you’re here, just to keep things simple.” Viktor tapped his chin. “We can talk about that tomorrow, but take the night to think it over. Obviously I look too young to be your father, but we could say we’re brothers, or cousins, we look enough alike.”

Yuri’s blood ran cold (or rather, cold _er_ ).

“Let’s make one thing clear,” he spat. “I’m here because Grandpa asked me to come. As soon as all the fuss dies down, I’m going back to Russia. I don’t need your _charity_.”

Viktor’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline, and sharp, sickening satisfaction rose in Yuri’s chest. _It’s me and my grandpa,_ he thought. _It’s always been us. You have no fucking right._

“ _We,_ ” snarled Yuri as he stared Viktor down, “Are not family.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if you want to punch me for leaving you with two cliffhangers in a row, check out [**A Dangerous Game**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10521141) for something that actually isn't an angst monster unless you remember that it's technically a prequel to this story.


	21. Chapter 21

“This is a terrible idea.” Chris’s voice was muffled by the glossy white plastic of the restaurant’s cheap table pressing against his cheek. It was unclear whether the dark circles under his eyes were due to the remnants of a hangover or rapidly dawning horror.

“Christophe,” Viktor said, beaming at him, “This is genius. You need to give yourself more credit.”

“The problem here is not confidence,” groaned Chris. “The problem is that this involves pretending to be a vampire when I am physically incapable of lying and, on a related note, _not a vampire.”_

“People see what they want to see.” Viktor flapped a hand dismissively, flicking through the menu out of idle curiosity. Chris had demanded breakfast, and though the options were rather limited in the evening, he seemed satisfied with the American-style diner.  

“You usually say that they see what’s expected.”

“It’s the same thing, yes?”

“I _want_ to see my boyfriend walk through that door wearing thigh high socks and nothing else.” Chris smirked as he lifted his head from the table, the effect slightly ruined when his cheek stuck momentarily to the plastic surface. “And yet, my eyes are failing me.”

Viktor laughed at the dreamy look in Chris’s eyes before sobering. “You know what I mean. It’s why Yuuri hasn’t guessed I’m a vampire – he doesn’t want me to be. It’s why Yurio is convincing himself that Yuuri and Phichit can’t _really_ be hunters.”

 _“That,_ ” said Christophe, “Sounds like hope, and we both know that Yuri hasn’t been optimistic once in his entire life. Maybe you should listen to what he’s saying.”

“Yurio’s different since Otabek showed up,” replied Viktor. “He’s… softer. And Yura sees the world in black and white – I think he’s looking on the bright side for once, which isn’t always such a good thing. That’s part of why I don’t want him involved in this.”

“Have you considered that you might be _too_ good at seeing things in shades of grey?”

They paused for a moment to thank the waiter who brought Chris’s food to the table and refilled his cup of coffee, waiting until he was several meters away to resume their conversation. It was unlikely that he would either care enough to listen or be able to follow their rapid French, but Viktor preferred not to take unnecessary risks.

“You were right about Yuri. There’s more to him than I thought,” continued Chris between bites, “But you do this _every time._ That first hunter you met – they would have killed you without batting an eye if you hadn’t done everything exactly right, and you talk about them like they’re some sort of dark hero.”

“If they hadn’t wanted to give me a chance, nothing I could have done would have mattered,” said Viktor quietly. “Are you saying you think Yuuri is…”

“We’ll see.” Chris’s mood had begun to lighten after the delivery of pancakes, but the serious undertone in his voice remained. “I’ll do your damage control, see if he seems sympathetic, feed him some false information if it’s pertinent. I need to see if he’s as cute as you say, after all.”

“I appreciate it.”

“I don’t exactly have a choice,” said Chris, rolling his eyes. “You and your bets were more fun before. Besides, you’re paying for my food.”

* * *

_Beka:_ good morning

Yuri reread the text as he combed out his wet hair, taking a moment to relish the flutter in his chest at the sight of the once-again-familiar name on the screen. In the week since he’d given Otabek his new phone number, Yuri had woken to a message waiting for him. Even on those two or three days that Otabek had crept upstairs with a cat and a murmured question that was never and always _can I stay here_ , Yuri would open his eyes to find his phone displaying a new message.

He typed out a reply - _it’s not morning, idiot –_ but deleted it again as a frisson of tension flitted through his fingers. The countless missed calls, years ago, to a phone he now knew had been lying abandoned somewhere in St. Petersburg, were still sour in his memory.

_“I found your skates in the rink locker today, even though they cleared out your apartment last week. I thought I’d see you at the Grand Prix, at least, but… you’re not coming back, are you?”_

_“Beka –_ Otabek _– pick up the phone and tell me why you left, you fucking coward.”_

_“It’s not like I don't understand. I guess I’m surprised you stuck around me for so long. It’s just… over two years, and it wasn’t worth a word before you went.”_

The name flashing on his screen was a spell he didn’t want to break.

Besides, Yuri thought as he slipped his phone into his pocket, he could say everything in person now, watch the corner of Otabek’s mouth quirk as he replied _morning is a social construct, Yura._

As his breakfast was warming in the microwave, Yuri unlatched the blinds covering the kitchen window, setting a timer on his phone as an additional reminder to close them again before sunrise. Otabek was sitting on the grass beside Viktor’s garden, which was all but dormant as the edges of winter crept closer. He seemed to be carved from stone, another piece of the landscape, and Yuri guessed that Otabek had been outside since long before sunset.

Yuri slipped outside quietly, making no attempt to hide his presence, but unwilling to disturb Otabek’s reverie. Moonlight coated the earth in strips of silver.

Otabek didn’t move a muscle as Yuri approached, the absence of a response in itself an invitation – Yuri had learned early on in their friendship that Otabek required periods of solitude the same way others needed oxygen.

He settled himself on the ground behind Otabek, facing away, their shoulders close enough that Yuri could feel the heat radiating from his skin even though they weren’t touching. Yuri gazed up at the clear sky. He had learned patience from Otabek years before, how to let the moments pass without succumbing to the urge to wrench each second from the unstoppable tug of time. The city lights were too close, muting the velvety black into shades of grey, but his sharp eyes could still pick out pinpricks of stars.

Minutes flowed by, uncounted but not unnoticed, before Otabek exhaled softly and leaned back into Yuri’s shoulders. The dreamlike veneer coating the world shimmered and trembled, fragile as a soap bubble, but didn’t break.

“I missed you,” murmured Otabek.

The leaden coil of regret twisted in Yuri’s stomach.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered back. _I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry you couldn’t forget me. I’m sorry I let you go. I’m sorry I fell._

“No,” said Otabek, and Yuri knew that he had heard all the unspoken apologies. “At first, I would sometimes wish I could forget that you ever existed because it hurt so much. But later… it made me happy to remember you. That you’d been there with me at all. I wouldn’t have given that up for anything.”

Yuri closed his eyes to stem the sharp prickle of tears. “Your phone’s password. My birthday. You kept it.”

“I still… somewhere along the line, I started to forget you anyway. Who you were. I made up this person who was perfect, who never fell or made mistakes, and I told myself that was you. You would have hated me then,” said Otabek, his voice cracking with the unspoken _and maybe you did._ “I knew I needed to move on, but those memories were the last thing I had of you, even if they weren’t real anymore. I kept thinking that I couldn’t even remember the last thing you said to me before I left.”

“’Go get some sleep, asshole,’” replied Yuri, opening his eyes again. “I wondered if that was why you left, that I couldn’t be nice even when I was trying.”

The silence hanging between them, the soft brush of Otabek’s hair against Yuri’s cheek as he let his head fall back, said more than their words ever could.

Eventually, Otabek broke the stillness.

“It hasn’t felt completely real, you being here. Or maybe that _this_ is real and the last couple of years were just a dream.”

“When I realized you weren’t coming back,” Yuri heard himself say, “I kept thinking that there was so much about you that I’d never get a chance to learn. Not big stuff, just… you never told me where you learned to pick locks. Or, that time you broke into my hotel room and saran wrapped me to the bed, and I never figured out how you got the keycard. I always thought you’d be there forever, that we’d have time.”

“Right after I moved to America. I was fourteen or fifteen, my English wasn’t great, and my skating was weird. I- there was this guy, a hockey player who practiced in the same rink, I don’t even remember his name, but I wanted to impress him. I spent weeks watching youtube videos and practicing on my bike lock.”

“Fuck.” Yuri didn’t bother to bite back his surprised giggle. “That’s why you refused to tell me?”

Otabek’s voice held a smile. “That, and I was afraid of what would happen if you learned to pick locks.”

“I still want to learn.” He felt Otabek nod. “The hotel?”

“I thought you knew that one already,” Otabek replied. “It was kind of obvious. After all, only one person had all the spare cards.”

Yuri’s jaw dropped. “He _didn’t.”_

“Mhmm.”

“ _Yakov_ gave you my room key?”

“Yeah. It didn’t take long to convince him, either,” said Otabek with a chuckle. “He didn’t say so, but I think he found it amusing.”

“He’s going to pay for this,” muttered Yuri darkly. Otabek shifted slightly.

“You talk to him?”

“Occasionally,” said Yuri. “He checks up on me, to make sure everything is going okay. And I’m pretty sure he and Grandpa gossip about me sometimes.”

“That’s… amazing, really.”

“Hmm?”

“You- you managed to keep things kind of normal, as far as that goes,” Otabek said, a tinge of melancholy in his tone. “You have a life here, but you didn’t leave everything else behind, even... I’ve never understood how you can be so strong, but you always have been.”

Yuri winced as the words sank needles into his heart.

“Whoever you’re thinking of, that’s not me,” he snapped. “I wasn’t _strong,_ I fell apart.”

“How-“ Otabek twisted so he was facing Yuri. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- but how are you so- now-“

“I had a lot of help,” Yuri said bluntly. “Viktor, even though I did everything I could to push him away. Grandpa. Chris, amazingly enough. Lots of therapy too. I was a mess.”

“… Therapy?” Otabek turned the word over on his tongue like an alien fruit, wondering and worrying at the syllables. “Who? How?”

“When things got really bad…” Yuri caught his lip between his teeth before explaining further. “We- Viktor- found someone. She’s like us. Works with normal people most of the time, but… yeah.”

He could hear Otabek’s thoughts whirling.

“Beka, is that- is that something you’d be interested in?”

“I’ll… I’ll think about it.” The warmth of his gaze brushed Yuri’s cheek. “Thank you for telling me, Yura.”

The conversation fell away, like covers of a book flipping shut before the last sentence could be read.

 _But… we have time, now,_ Yuri let himself think.

“The moon is almost full,” he said instead. “Do you have plans?”

“Three days,” murmured Otabek, “I found a place to go last month, outside the city.”

Yuri nodded, trying to quell his tension.

“Don't worry, Yura, please. I’ve done this a lot. It’ll be fine.” He wrapped an arm around Yuri’s shoulders, pulling him closer. “I promise… I promise I’ll be back the next day, okay?”

Yuri turned his head before he could think anymore and pressed a kiss to Otabek’s cheek, the brush of his lips against heated skin so quick and gentle he would assume Otabek didn’t notice if not for the blush coloring his ears and the smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“I know,” he said.

* * *

Yuuri flinched as Yurio kicked the back of his seat, the impact managing to shake the entire car.

“You look like an idiot with your knees bent like that,” growled Yurio. Yuuri glanced at his legs, which were indeed jammed against the glovebox, twisted to fit the small space. “Move your seat back, you’re making _my_ hips hurt.”

Viktor had disappeared back into the house several minutes ago in search of vaguely-referenced ‘supplies,’ leaving the other two sitting in the driveway. Yuuri’s eyes flicked anxiously to his watch, counting down the minutes until the concert was supposed to begin, trying to calculate the time it would take to drive and park.

“Are you sure you’ll have enough room, Yuri?”

Yuri rolled his eyes, though the gesture lacked his usual sardonic flair, and swung his legs across the back seat. Yuuri’s years of ballet pulled his attention to Yuri’s smooth turnout, which made his angry sprawl more graceful than teenage angst had any right to be. He wondered if the boy had danced, in whatever life he’d had before. A twinge of sympathy flashed through him; it had been hard enough for Yuuri to leave the ballet company even when he could feel the youthfulness of his body fading away, and he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have something like that ripped away without warning.

“Hey, Yurio?”

Yuri grunted, but it sounded more like _what_ than _fuck off._

“Can I ask how old you are?”

“Five hundred years,” came the snarled reply.

 _Five hundred…_ Yuuri tried to peer at him through the rearview mirror, starting in surprise for an instant as a blank set was reflected back at him before he shook his head ruefully and turned around. He didn’t look like a being that could possibly be centuries old, even discounting the incident Yuuri had seen several minutes ago (and promptly pretended to have missed entirely) in which Yuri had checked his phone and walked directly into the wall while distracted.

Yurio scowled out the window – not the front door, from which Viktor would emerge at any second, but at the moon rising between the trees like a silver coin.

“It’s full tonight,” Yuuri commented. _Could he really be so old? And if he is, Viktor must be…_

“Really?” Yurio glared at him, tugging harshly at the strand of hair he’d been braiding and unbraiding, before he switched to unraveling several strands poking out of the shredded knee of his black jeans. “I hadn’t fucking noticed.”

He was rescued from the rising tension, which had flooded the car like a wave of tar, by Viktor’s return.

Viktor tossed a couple of bags into the trunk before hopping into the driver’s seat. He was wearing a different shirt, noted Yuuri, and his hair was freshly combed and styled. _Supplies, huh?_ Yuuri smoothed back strands of his own unruly hair, hoping he wasn’t underdressed, or overdressed, or just dressed _wrong_ for whatever sort of concert this was.

“Yurio,” said Viktor as he pulled into the street, “You’re welcome to stick with us tonight, if you want.”

“Hah,” Yuri replied darkly, “Because being a third wheel the whole night sounds like _so_ much fun.”

Yuuri picked at his fingernails, wishing he could disappear. Even Viktor seemed taken aback.

“Yura, I-“

Slouching farther down in the seat, Yuri sighed.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m meeting up with Mila. She was in town to check in with her surgeon today.”

“Are you two going to the show?”

“Probably not,” said Yuri, shrugging with obviously feigned nonchalance. “Not in the mood.”

“Let me know where to drop you off, then.”

They ended up letting Yuri jump out near a train station Yuuri thought he recognized from a couple of his expeditions with Phichit, where he was embraced by a young woman with bright red hair and a brace wrapped around her left knee, though the injury didn’t stop her from lifting Yuri over her head while he shrieked and squirmed away, landing on his feet like a disgruntled cat. He removed one of the backpacks from the trunk, slinging it over his shoulder with an exaggerated scoff.

“Is he okay?” Yuuri asked hesitantly as Viktor started the car again. “Yurio seems a bit upset tonight.”

“He’s a little stressed,” admitted Viktor. “Mila will keep him out of trouble for the night, though. They’re old friends.”

“Um, Viktor?” Yuuri, remembering his earlier conversation (to use a generous term) with Yurio, cast Viktor a look that he hoped spelled out _if you are secretly a thousand years old we will have to talk about this_ but was probably closer to _I am having digestive problems,_ turned to his boyfriend ( _boyfriend!_ Who might be ancient beyond mortal comprehension?). “I guess this is a weird question, but how old is Yurio?”

“Hmm?” Viktor swerved into a parking spot along the side of the road, giving Yuuri a minor heart attack in the process. “He’s twenty. He’s a little older than he looks.”

“Oh. Has he, uh, been twenty for a long time?” Yuuri bit his tongue as a blush flared across his cheeks. _This is why I let Phichit do the talking,_ he thought.

“I guess so?” Viktor locked the car, holding his own bag in a loose grip. “His birthday is in early spring.”

The distant roar of a crowd made Yuuri tilt his head. It seemed small – he could pick out individual shouts – but enthusiastic, almost drowning out the rising threads of music.

“Is that the concert?”

“It’s more of a festival, but yes.” Viktor grinned.

“ _Outside?_ ” Yuuri blinked at him. “It’s almost December!”

Viktor toyed with the end of Yuuri’s knitted green scarf, looping the long end around his own neck as he draped an arm around Yuuri’s hips. He winked. “We’ll just have to dance to keep warm, then.”

* * *

_This man is dangerous,_ realized Viktor, watching Yuuri dance under the colored lights. Despite the chill, he’d shed his jacket and hat somewhere along the way, leaving him wearing a fitted black tee and a sly smirk.

Yuuri had discarded his cup, which held only a few remaining drops of mulled wine, and turned to look up at Viktor with a smolder in his eyes. Viktor, who had been about to ask Yuuri if he was warm enough, was struck speechless by the heat of his smile as he was dragged onto the dance floor.

“Yuuri, you’re- _wow,_ ” he shouted over the music.

“This is why I only drink on special occasions.” A flash of the usual quiet, contemplative Yuuri flickered through for a second with a sheepish quirk of an eyebrow.

 _Duality,_ thought Viktor. _Medium: the most beautiful man in the world._

“What’s the occasion?” He had to repeat himself several times before Yuuri could hear him.

“ _You_ are,” purred Yuuri, pulling Viktor closer. “Dance with me.”

* * *

“Yura,” whispered Otabek, “Yura, I’m back.”

Yuri’s eyes snapped open as Otabek touched his shoulder lightly.

“Took you long enough,” said Yuri, a wide smile stretching across his face. “Beka, you look like a trainwreck.”

Otabek shrugged. Despite the streaks of mud and dark circles under his eyes, he seemed relaxed, if distracted.

“Long night,” he replied. “Yura, why are you sleeping on the couch?”

“I was waiting up for you.”

“With great success, I see,” teased Otabek. “I’m gonna-“ He yawned widely- “Gonna take a shower.”

“And go to sleep before you pass out, yeah?” Yuri burrowed back under the blankets. Zoyenka, curled up beside his hip, stretched her feet as Otabek reached down to stroke her fur. “Hey, Beka?”

“Yes?”

“I wasn’t worried. But… thanks for waking me up.”

* * *

“ _What,_ ” sneered Yuri, curling his lip, “Is that?”

Otabek picked up the spiky green vegetable, biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing.

“Have you actually never seen an artichoke before?”

“That is not food. That is an abomination.” Yuri appeared to be offended and deeply mistrustful.

He dropped it back in the bin – it was a bit dried out and worn, and Otabek had never been fond of the time and effort it took to prepare them. Yuri was already distracted, edging around a basket of garlic with a look of disgust.

Grocery shopping took much longer with Yuri accompanying him, even though Otabek no longer had to puzzle out the German labels with his phone’s translation app and his own rudimentary vocabulary.

“I still think artichokes are unnatural,” said Yuri, as Otabek packed the purchases into their bags. He lifted an eyebrow when Otabek handed him a sack. “You’re eating this, you get to carry it.”

He took the bag anyway.

“Aisulu was obsessed with artichokes for a while,” said Otabek, remembering his older sister’s teenage phases. “I think we had them in some form with every meal for an entire month.”

“That’s basically normal, for your family,” Yuri snorted. “Are Aisulu’s kids as weird as she is?”

Otabek tripped over a crack in the pavement and looked away, trying to shake off the pang of sadness. _Not now, please._

“Beka?”

“Do you remember how to get to the bus stop from here?” Otabek avoided Yuri’s eyes.

“Yeah, of course,” said Yuri, tipping his head but mercifully not pursuing the question further. “It’s the only twenty four hour grocery in Berlin, I could get around here in my sleep.”

They didn’t speak much on the way home. Otabek watched the landscape stream past the window, first the blocks of Berlin’s anachronistic architecture outside the bus, then the line of trees set along the train tracks. Yuri played with his phone, but Otabek could feel the weight of his gaze without looking.

Yuri dropped the bags of groceries onto the kitchen counter, stashing the cold items in the fridge and leaving everything else for Otabek to sort through and arrange in the otherwise-empty cabinets.

“Beka,” he said quietly, as Otabek climbed onto a chair to put away the box of noodles (Viktor’s kitchen was designed for giants, apparently). “When you said I had a life here, I didn’t leave everything behind… do you still talk to your family?”

He closed the cabinet with slightly more force than was strictly necessary, hyperaware of his pulse thumping against his ribs, his lungs gasping greedily for oxygen, knowing that Yuri could hear each beat of his racing heart.

“I write,” he said shortly, wishing he didn’t notice Yuri’s eyes widening.

“You write to them.” The words fell, accusing, on his ears. “But you don’t- they don’t know anything, do they? You’ve been lying to them.”

Otabek knew his silence was more than enough of an answer for Yuri. He didn’t need to speak out loud, let the damning syllables scrape his throat like sandpaper. He didn’t want Yuri’s pity, or his own guilt.

“Is this just the sort of person you are now?” Yuri’s voice hit him like a slap. “Did you cut them off too?”

“We don’t need to talk about this,” said Otabek harshly. “It’s not your problem.”

“You made it my problem when you came back,” replied Yuri, low and dangerous. “How am I supposed to trust that you won’t walk away again, if you did it to your _family?_ Have you even met your sister’s kids?”

Something in his chest snapped, but instead of pain, a wave of numbness swept through Otabek’s body.

“It’s not like I had a fucking choice,” he growled, gritting his teeth. “I would have destroyed them.” _I’m poison, don’t you see?_ “I would have lost them anyway. This is the only way I had to keep them at all, don’t act like it’s something I wanted.”

“So now you’re being _noble_ again,” said Yuri, throwing it like a dagger, his aim true. “You don’t give anyone else a choice, you just decide what’s best, and what’s best is _leaving._ ”

“Don’t.” _Please._ “Aisulu hasn’t spoken to me in almost two years. You know, when I was there that summer, she kept talking about what a good uncle I’d be, how she was going to make me babysit all the time. I went back to Almaty before coming to Berlin. She wouldn’t even let me _see_ them.”

“Shit,” mumbled Yuri, regret dawning in his eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t, I shouldn’t have-“

“When I went to Sweden, I told them I was backpacking.” The words kept pouring out; Otabek wasn’t sure he could stop himself. “It seemed like a good excuse. I thought I’d be gone for a couple of weeks, get my head together, be a functional human again. I was there for five months.”

“You-“

“They thought I was dead, Yura.” The kitchen air seemed hot and stuffy, suffocating. “I almost _was,_ and they would never have known what happened. Then I showed up again, and I couldn’t say anything, because how do you tell your parents that you’re not even _human_ anymore?”

He paced the room like a caged animal, or an animal that’s spent so long trapped behind bars that it wouldn’t know where to run if offered a chance at freedom.

“It was going to happen again. I fucked up every choice I made, and eventually…” Otabek closed his eyes. “If I stayed in Almaty, I couldn’t have hidden it for long, and I didn’t want to lose them. And I didn’t want to hurt them like that again if- when- I disappeared. It was better for all of us if I kept my distance.”

“I’m so fucking sorry, Beka.” Yuri’s voice was strangled, airless. “But you’re- you’re safe now, you can call them, you can-“

“I can’t. I can’t, Yura.” _I should be crying,_ Otabek thought dully, but he was left with dry eyes and trembling hands. “I’m sorry. I should have told you everything, but I don’t _know,_ I didn’t want to think about it. I fucked it up again, and I dragged you into it too.”

“Beka,” whispered Yuri, “Tell me what? Please.”

“I don’t know anything about werewolves. I’ve been guessing on everything, trying to piece it together,” said Otabek, unable to raise his voice out of the grey monotone. “My body temperature is basically like a wolf’s. So is my hearing, and most of my other senses.”

“What do you mean?”

“The first thing I found when I looked up wolves… They live six to eight years in the wild. Almost twenty, in captivity.” He felt Yuri’s hand touch his shoulder, but it was distant, the sensation fuzzy. “I don’t know if I’m more like a human, or a wolf, or somewhere in between. I was turned close to three years ago. I might not-“ The words were stones, and he choked on them, on their bitter taste, on the tears that had begun to course down Yuri’s face. “I might not be here in ten years.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by madimation, who can be found both here and on tumblr under the same username.

_“I might not be here in ten years.”_

The revelation shattered in Yuri’s mind, the syllabic shrapnel lodging itself into every corner of his thoughts as he hugged Otabek tightly, not bothering to wipe away the tears that trickled down his face and gleamed wetly in Otabek’s black hair.

“God, Beka,” he choked out, “Everything happens to you.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to tell you like that.” Otabek huffed a quiet, broken laugh, muffled by the press of Yuri’s shoulder against his face. “Yura, I need you to let go a little.”

“Fuck, I-“ Yuri jumped back, cursing himself for clinging for his own comfort without checking to see if Otabek required space.

A hint of amusement flickered through the dark eyes, reminding Yuri that Otabek was more resilient than anyone could believe, that he’d been knocked down countless times and got back to his feet, was still standing.

“No,” he said, pulling Yuri back into his arms, “I just couldn’t breathe. You’re really strong.”

“Oh. Right.” Yuri fell into the embrace again, careful not to squeeze too hard this time. “Okay. We can figure this out. Berlin has _everything,_ someone has to know something.”

“Yura, I…” Instead of relief, Otabek’s voice held only an apology. “I don’t want to find out.”

“What? But-“ Yuri’s heart dropped to the floor, and he quickly loosened his arms as Otabek let out a soft _oof._ “How can you deal with not knowing?”

“If it’s- if it’s bad,” said Otabek, stroking Yuri’s hair gently, “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life counting down how much time I have left. Besides, no one ever knows, not really.”

“I don’t understand,” whispered Yuri, though it resonated in him with a nauseating aura of sense. “ _I_ could-“

“Yura,” Otabek pleaded, “Would you have wanted to know you were going to fall, if there wasn’t anything you could do to stop it? If everyone was looking at you like you were already gone?”

“… No,” he admitted. “Fuck. I hate this.”

“This isn’t fair to you.” Otabek’s voice hitched. “I can’t ask you to go through this for me. I understand.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Yuri hissed, his eyes blazing. Hot prickles of anger flared down his spine, scorching the floor beneath his feet. “Don’t you _dare_ try to run away again because you think it’ll help me somehow. If you _want_ to go? Go. I won’t stop you. I got through it before, and I could do it again. But if it’s because of _me,_ that’s my choice too. You don’t get to make it for me, you don’t get to decide what I can and can’t deal with, what I want.”

“You don’t-“ A spark of hope burned briefly in Otabek’s face, and he stared at Yuri like he was looking at a second chance.

“This doesn’t change anything, Beka,” Yuri said firmly. “I knew you were going to be a permanent part of my life the moment you asked me to be friends in Barcelona, whatever we ended up becoming. You took that choice away from me once, even if you didn’t mean to, and I’m not letting you do it again because you don’t think you’re worth it.”

Otabek’s face froze halfway between a grimace and a smile, his lips parted, ready to mouth words that had escaped him entirely.

“Even at the worst, there are years before we have to think about it,” Yuri continued quietly. “And I- I’ve been trying to tell you, but I didn’t want to hurt you again- I might not be here in ten years either.”

“Yura, you’re… you’re basically immortal.” Otabek’s voice didn’t lift it into a question, but uncertainty permeated the air anyway.

“Young vampires, we- we don’t have great chances.” Yuri slumped, burying his face in Otabek’s shoulder. “The very beginning is the most dangerous. And I have Viktor looking out for me. I’ve learned a lot. But it- it just takes one mistake. And I make a lot of mistakes. I’m… I can’t promise I won’t fuck up again.” He sighed heavily. “I mean, look at how I got here in the first place.”

“Oh. I…” Otabek threaded his fingers through Yuri’s hair, cupping the back of his head to pull him closer. “I think I kind of guessed that already. With the emergency supplies. And Viktor being so worried about you.”

Yuri laughed suddenly.

“Beka, we’re a mess.”

“Yeah, we are.” He heard Otabek’s answering smile, sad but determined. “Yura, can you… Can you give me the name of that therapist? I think- I think I should talk to her.”  

* * *

“What the _fuck.”_

Phichit stared at Yuuri. Yuuri stared at his notepad. The paper offered no help.

“So, how was the interview, Yuuri?” The soft glow of dawn painted the small café in shades of pink and gold, complementing their reddened, tired eyes.

“It was either amazing or terrible,” mumbled Yuuri, reaching across the table to grab Phichit’s cappuccino. He took a sip, grimacing at the taste. “Ugh. I don’t care if he only wants to talk to one of us. Next time, either you go or it’s both of us, because I can’t do that again. I should have gone to school in the US, practiced my English more.”

“Your English is damn near perfect, if you’re not under pressure,” Phichit replied. “Can I see your notes? Maybe I can figure it out.”

“Go for it. I might have hallucinated the entire thing,” Yuuri groaned, removing his glasses and rubbing his face.

Phichit flipped open the steno pad.

“Hmm.”

“Yep.”

“He’s never had a problem with silver.”

“So he said.”

“He spent twenty minutes asking you about Waseda?” Phichit raised an eyebrow. “And the rest of the meeting was a series of stories about the struggles faced by friends of his after they were turned, but he wouldn’t give any actual details.”

“He was very passionate, though.” Yuuri yawned widely. “I might have missed stuff too. His accent threw me off. Sounded like he was French pretending to be German but speaking English. I need a nap.”

“Wow. You need to go to bed.” They both could use some sleep, to be honest. “What was his name?”

“He wouldn’t tell me.”

* * *

“Yura?” The basement was chilly, and Yuri briefly mourned the loss of Otabek’s warmth against his back. “I’m going to the- the appointment.”

“Right, that’s today.” Not that he could have forgotten, even without the undercurrent of nerves in the past three days, since Otabek had called the number from a business card still stuck to the front of the fridge and asked to come in, his voice neutral despite the white of his knuckles as he gripped the edge of the table. Neither of them had brought up the reasons Yuri ventured downstairs just after sunrise to find Otabek sitting in bed, still awake, flipping through another of Viktor’s books without seeing a word. He hadn’t pointed out that the book was in German, instead simply asking _can I sleep down here_ before curling up under the covers _._ “Are you…”

 _Ready?_ No, Yuri knew already.

“It’s amazing how you can wake up like that,” Otabek said, avoiding the half-formed question. Yuri flashed a quick smile, not wanting to remind him that sleep wasn’t really sleep anymore, and waking up was something like flipping a light switch. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

“Jerk, I told you to wake me up before you left.” Outside, the sun would be low in the sky, preparing to sink under the horizon. Otabek was toying with a corner of the sheets, folding and twisting the fabric. “Beka?”

“It’s real, after this,” he said quietly. “I can’t- I can’t tell myself I’m just tired, or having a bad day. That it’s going to go away in a minute and everything will be fine.”

Yuri searched for a scrap of reassurance, but the pool of his thoughts was empty. He didn’t know what it felt like; when he’d stepped into the office himself, he had been too deep in the grey void for fear, to care about what it _meant,_ to be able to offer the support of experience. More than anything, Yuri wished he could promise that everything would be okay and have it be more than an empty hope tied to a wavering, uncertain future.

A nod. Too small a gesture, but for Otabek, it seemed to be enough.

“I’m afraid,” he whispered. “That I’m going to just… fall apart.”

 _Is this the right thing to do?_ His eyes asked the question neither of them wanted to face. _How much time will we lose if it’s too much?_

Otabek was held together by pressure, Yuri realized, the fissures and fault lines grinding his edges into dust, worn away by the very force that kept him standing for so long. How long would it have been before he shattered?

“If you do…” Yuri’s brain ground to a halt, but his mouth kept moving. “I promise not to pay any cell phone bills this time.”

_God fucking dammit, Plisetsky, what the fuck-_

A corner of Otabek’s lip quirked upwards.

“You always know just what to say, Yura,” he replied, the tiniest hint of a spark dancing in his eyes.

“Can we just pretend I said something normal,” Yuri groaned, faceplanting into his pillow, “and never talk about this again?”

“Nope.” He felt a light touch as Otabek patted the top of his head. “Guess I still owe you for that. I’d buy you dinner, but… Actually, that’d be pretty fitting.”

“Shut the fuck up, Altin.” He rolled out of bed and wrapped his fingers around Otabek’s wrist, suddenly worried that his words had come out harsh instead of teasing. “But you don’t have to be okay, you know?”

“You said that before,” Otabek murmured.

“Yeah, but I don’t think you believed me.”

“I’m… I think I’m starting to.”

* * *

“Yuuri,” purred Viktor into the phone. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Oh, um, is it?” He caught the soft whisper of an indrawn breath and Phichit’s voice in the background, babbling in Thai as something crashed to the floor. “I did say I was going to call you when I got home…”

“I, of course, I remember, I was-“ His voice trailed off as Yuuri laughed lightly.

“I’m teasing, Vitya,” Yuuri reassured him. “It’s cute when you stutter.”

“Is this another special occasion?” Viktor crossed his fingers, praying silently to whichever gods might be listening, _please let this be another special occasion._ And, wonder of wonders-

“Uh, kind of,” said Yuuri. “Phichit bought schnapps for my birthday, and we have this, I guess it’s a tradition now? Ah, just a minute-“ There was a muffled scuffle, and he heard Yuuri say something in Japanese that was probably _Phichit no_ , given the clear English reply of _Phichit yes!_ before Yuuri was back on the line. “Anyway, my birthday was always right around exam time at Waseda, so we’d buy drinks and take a night off.”

“That’s-“ Viktor wanted to lie face down on the floor and cry a little because how could his boyfriend be so perfect, it wasn’t _fair,_ but it was so- so- “Wait. It’s your birthday?”

“A few days ago. We were busy with some interviews so we postponed.”

“I missed your birthday.”

“I didn’t want to make a big deal about it,” said Yuuri quietly. “I was just wondering if you wanted to come over and join us?”

“Yes, of course!” He really did lie face down on the floor at this point. “I missed your birthday…”

“Oh no, I, um, I’m sorry?” Yuuri sounded worried. “I mean, you did take me to the concert, and birthday presents aren’t really a Japanese thing so it’s not like-“

“I’m going to make this up to you.”

“I- okay?”

“Anything you want, Yuuri.”

_Say you want a kiss, please, I’ve set this up, it’s all you now, come on._

“Well, um, if you really want…” Yuuri said hesitantly, “There is something I’ve been wanting to ask, but I don’t want you to feel like you _have_ to-“

_Yes!_

“You have a lot more experience than I do-“ _Promising start._ “And there’s this, er, problem? With the research-“ _What._ “And so I was wondering if you would be willing to come to an interview and let us know what you think?”

Viktor whimpered softly into the carpet. Myshónok wobbled over and nudged at his ear, chirping uncertainly.

“You don’t have to,” babbled Yuuri, “It was only an idea we had and-“

“Of course I’ll do it,” said Viktor with forced cheer, listening with horror as his mouth betrayed him. “Anything to help you!”

“Thank you so much. You’re- you still want to come over tonight?”

“I’ll be there soon, голубка. I need to get dressed”

An hour or so before the sun had sufficiently set. That was a normal amount of time to take to get ready, right?

Viktor spent another few moments to contemplate the path his life had taken, absentmindedly petting the orange cat as he wondered if crying was an appropriate reaction, before sending a text to Christophe.

 

 **VN:** Things might have gotten a little more complicated. Maybe.

 **CG:** I was afraid you were going to say that.

 

He’d just started to peel himself off the carpet, much to Myshónok’s dismay, when the door to his bedroom swung open.

“Viktor?” Yuri peered around the corner, lifting an eyebrow. “Why are you on the floor?”

“I was… meditating. You’re up early, Yura.”

“I got up when Otabek went out,” mumbled Yuri. “I’m not tired.”

 _Oh._ Viktor had been relieved beyond words when Yuri had mentioned Otabek had decided to make an appointment. He’d been making plans to bring up the topic himself, unsure of whether Yuri had seen his friend (friend?) jumping slightly at every crash as the cats knocked something off the counters, or the blank, empty cast to his gaze when he thought Yuri wasn’t looking.

Viktor pulled his phone from his pocket, mentally composing an apologetic message. _I’m sorry, Yuuri, something came up, I will make it up to you if you’re free tomorrow?_

“I can stay in tonight,” he said out loud, keeping his voice casual. “We can watch a movie until he gets back. You said that weird cartoon is on Netflix now?”

“You’re going out?”

He shrugged. Yuri rolled his eyes.

“With Katsuki. Which is why you’re on the floor.”

At that, Viktor sat up, brushing himself off.

“It’s part of my routine,” he said, trying to sound dignified, but Yuri’s snort suggested he fell a few meters short of success. “It was a last minute thing.” Yuri bit the corner of his lip, and Viktor took a moment to wonder how the boy managed to avoid giving himself an impromptu piercing but couldn’t go a day without spilling blood down his shirt.

“Go on your damn date,” Yuri said, scowling. “I just have a question.”

The look on Yuri’s face suggested that it was more of a Question than a simple question, and Viktor quelled his moment of panic, the recurring shock that someone was looking to _him_ for advice, that he’d somehow made Yuri think he knew what he was doing.

But… in nearly seventy years, Yuri was the first person to look to Viktor, to view him as something more than the scatterbrained skater or irresponsible friend, and in turn he’d learned that responsibility was more about being there than knowing what to do.

“Go for it.”

“I…” He could see the thoughts turning over in Yuri’s head, scattering and rearranging themselves. “How much do you know about werewolves?”

“Very little,” admitted Viktor. “There’s not much community overlap. But if there’s anything specific you and Otabek want to know, I can ask around.”

“The fuck does that mean?” The tight line of Yuri’s mouth said he was unhappy with the answer, but reluctant relief pooled in his eyes.

“From what I’ve heard, there was a lot of tension up until the last few decades,” said Viktor. Yuri was aware of, though personally unfamiliar with, many of the uglier aspects of their society. “Nasty beliefs about aggression, a lack of control, that people insisted made them dangerous to the rest of the community. There was a very effective campaign back in the eighties, which is where most of my knowledge is from, but most werewolves understandably chose to keep to themselves, especially in more isolated areas.”

“Aggression.” Anger flared to life in Yuri’s face, temper instantly boiling under his skin. “Control. _I_ lost control. No one said shit.”

“It’s not true or rational,” Viktor reminded him. “And if there’s any hint of it here, we’ll kick their ass so hard they end up in an alternate universe.”

That got a startled laugh and a muttered _if they’re lucky._

“I’ll ask around, see if I can find anyone for Otabek to talk to?”

“Not yet.” Yuri grimaced. “I’ll ask Beka.”

Viktor walked over to his closet and removed a couple of shirts, tossing them on the bed, as Yuri hovered in the doorway.

“Black or red, котик?”

Yuri wrinkled his nose. “Neither, unless you want to look like my grandpa. Wear that striped blue and white one. And wear jeans, for fuck’s sake, if you even look at those slacks I’ll tell Katsuki about The Incident.”

“You _wouldn’t,_ ” pouted Viktor. “Thanks, Yuri. Anything else?”

“Keep your phone on.”

“Top volume.”

“And, um.” The remainder of Yuri’s affected swagger, the snarls and snide remarks, melted away for an instant. “Can werewolves- can they turn into vampires?”

Oh. _Oh._

“Everything we know says that only- well, that only humans can be turned.” Viktor’s mind puttered to a stop, because _oh god he needed more time to prepare for this discussion._ “But if something happened, and I know how these things go when you’re young and get carried away, especially with the fang situation, it wouldn’t do Otabek any harm if he got some blood in his mouth. He bit me that first night, remember? There’s more that would have to happen, even if he was human.”

Yuri’s face fell, replaced with a blank mask Viktor wished he never had to see again.

“We didn't get into a fight,” he said, his voice a dull monotone. Viktor cycled back through what he’d said. _What did I miss? What didn’t I hear?_

“That, uh, wasn’t what I was saying,” Viktor replied carefully. “Yura, is there something I didn't understand? Do you want to talk?”

Yuri opened his mouth, and closed it again, before turning away.

“Yes. Maybe. But I can’t right now.”

* * *

Yuri wandered up the steps of the block of stately converted apartments, tracing his way to the second floor office from memory, and took a seat in the cozy lobby (a remodeled living room, he guessed), waiting for Otabek to emerge.

“Hey, Yuri,” called the receptionist, removing his reading glasses and blinking a few times. “How are the cats?”

“Zoyenka coughed up a hairball in my favorite shoes yesterday,” replied Yuri, rolling his eyes. “And Hermes is a meme now.”

“Good for him.” The young man glanced back at his computer. “Would you like to schedule an appointment, or is this more of a social call?”

Yuri started to shake his head to both suggestions, but took a moment to consider. Should he? _Yes,_ whispered his common sense, atrophied from long neglect.

He thought back to the list he’d carved into a notebook, waiting for the sun to set before leaving the house, its contents item after item of damning relief, an effort to gain some control over a situation that had already been a runaway train. He’d stared at it until the words were etched into his mind before burning the paper (and, for good measure, the following four sheets) on the kitchen stove. The accusations – _pity, fear, control, do I have the right to make this choice –_ had curled into smoke, an offering to the deities of trust. The acrid smell of burnt paper echoed the bitter twist in the back of Yuri’s throat; he’d almost asked Viktor what to do, how to find out, begged for a way to count the years and categorize them, pinning the future into a safe little box labeled _at least we know now._

 _He’ll find out eventually,_ a wheedling voice whispered in his mind. _Someone will say something, you’ll never have a chance to prepare. How can you let that happen to him? It’s better to have control._ Yuri pushed the temptation away. It wasn’t – it couldn’t be – his decision to make.

 _Whatever happens, we have time._ Time. Once a promise, now an ache in his chest, a sickening and inexorable sludge creeping up behind them. _Ten years, twenty, eighty. No one knows. I didn’t know._

“Not right now,” Yuri said carefully. The receptionist slid a card across his desk – identical to the one still taped to the refrigerator back home. _Just in case._

Several more minutes passed. Yuri was early, driven by nerves and an itching energy that only built as Viktor stepped into the driveway, leaving him between walls that started to close in around him immediately.

At last, Otabek walked out, speaking quietly with a tall woman in a brightly patterned headscarf. She flashed a quick smile at Yuri, who covered his ears, unwilling to breach the privacy of their conversation. Otabek clutched a stack of papers, looking shell-shocked but not unhappy as he wandered over to Yuri in a daze.

“Good to go, Beka?”

Otabek blinked at him, owlish, and nodded. They were halfway down the stairs before Otabek spoke up, a reply to a question Yuri had decided not to ask.

“I feel… the same.”

“Is that..?”

“A good thing. I think,” said Otabek quietly, his hand brushing Yuri’s elbow as he pulled open the door. “She’s nice. It was mostly paperwork today. She showed me a picture of her wife.”

“The bird one? She did that to me too,” Yuri replied. “I asked if it was legal to have a pet owl.” Otabek let out a strangled sound, obviously trying not to laugh. “I’m pretty sure all shapeshifters have a shitty sense of humor.”

“And of course, you didn’t pretend to faint when you saw an ad for steak.”

“Nope.”

“She, um.” Otabek’s tone shifted again, low and contemplative. “She renewed my prescription. The one I was on before. I need to find the pharmacy tomorrow.”

“I can help with that. And the pharmacists should all speak good English, at least.”

“Thanks,” said Otabek, his eyebrows tightening into a light frown. “She said I have a lot of anxiety.”

“Uh.” Yuri stared at him, mouth open slightly. _Beka, what the fuck._ “You don’t say?”

“It was kind of a shock.” Otabek’s lip twitched. Yuri gritted his teeth and sighed heavily.

“Completely new information there.”

“Would have never expected it.”

Yuri punched his shoulder gently. “Food?”  
“Later,” said Otabek. “I want a nap.”

* * *

 

“You are small and fragile, like a baby bird,” said Yuri, grinning smugly.

“Yura, you’re a few centimeters taller than me,” groaned Otabek, shaking out his wrist. “The world was a safer place when you had noodle arms.”

In retrospect, arm wrestling with a vampire – a _highly competitive_ vampire - was not exactly the smartest decision he’d ever made. However, it wasn’t something Otabek could refuse after walking into the kitchen to find Yuri in an off-the-shoulder shirt, sporting spectacular bedhead and a smear of blood on the corner of his mouth, grumbling _fight me, Beka._

 _“Cute,”_ Otabek had said, trying to ignore the way his heart skipped a beat or five when Yuri ran his fingers through his tangled hair, glancing teasingly at his blue sweatpants. _“You’re stealing my clothes again.”_

A thread of strain was taut between them, had been ever since their conversation in the kitchen when inhibition and fear had been scattered across the counter with the forgotten groceries, but, to Otabek’s surprise, it hadn’t pushed Yuri away. If anything, the string had pulled them closer, a promise he was still too afraid to name.

Yuri smirked, and Otabek had a split second to brace himself before his arm was slammed to the coffee table again. They were more evenly matched than he had expected – while Yuri far outstripped him in terms of raw strength, he relied entirely on force, allowing Otabek to gain back some ground with patience and careful leverage.

It wasn’t enough.

A thought struck him as Yuri flipped long blond hair back over his bare shoulder, green eyes sparkling.

“One more,” said Otabek, willing the gleam in his own gaze to keep his secret, “but if I win, you have to stop calling me _small and fragile._ ”

“And when I win?” Yuri smirked at him. Otabek shrugged.

They clasped hands again, elbows braced against the table, which creaked ominously as Yuri began to push, showing no sign of exertion. Otabek let his arm be forced to the side, trusting Yuri to savor his slow victory. He leaned forward until their faces were nearly touching. Yuri met his eyes.

“I want-“

Otabek kissed the tip of his nose and leaned back, laughing to himself at Yuri’s face, which morphed from shocked to pleased and finally outraged when Otabek pinned his hand to the wood.

“You were saying, Yura?”

“That wasn’t _fair._ ” Yuri scowled, and Otabek saw what was going to happen a second before Yuri launched himself through the air. He let himself be tackled to the carpet, instinctively cupping a hand around the back of Yuri’s head to prevent him from knocking into the base of the sofa.

They came to a stop with Yuri sprawled across Otabek’s chest.

“Shit.” He blinked, propping himself up to glance up at Otabek, lips tight with worry. “Was that okay?”

“You’re fine, Yura.” Otabek brushed a few loose strands of hair out of Yuri’s face and winked at him. “I already knew you were a sore loser.” It didn’t matter that vampires couldn’t be photographed, because Otabek knew he wouldn’t need any help remembering Yuri’s expression.

He twisted with an easy grace, rolling over so that Yuri was the one pinned to the floor.

“Cheater,” said Yuri, but his voice was fond. He rolled his eyes, and a wave a guilt crashed through Otabek, crushing the air from his lungs.

 _I shouldn’t be doing this, any of this, I’m selfish, I-_ no. He tried to breathe in as Yuri sat up and wiggled backwards until he could lean against the couch, leaving Otabek draped across his lap. He melted, feeling empty and boneless, as Yuri wound his fingers through Otabek’s hair, smoothing the messy tufts left by their impromptu wrestling. _I’m allowed to be happy,_ Otabek told himself, pretending that the thought rang true even as he leaned into the touch. _I_ can _be happy._ He wanted to forget the pangs of loss that still stabbed through his heart on an hourly basis, like missing Yuri had become a reflex, part of him. Then, with a jolt of something like hope, _I should ask Dr. Schäfer._

After a moment, Yuri’s hand fell away.

“Sorry,” he said, tugging at the collar of his loose shirt instead. “I forgot you don’t like people touching your hair.”

“Um.” Otabek felt his cheeks heat up, an instant sunburn. “I, uh. I don’t actually mind.”

“Beka,” said Yuri, raising an eyebrow, “Beka, didn’t you once threaten to throw me out of an airplane because I kept trying to play with your undercut? I thought the guy sitting next to me was going to pass out when you turned around.”

“I- what? Oh. I remember that.” He laughed softly. “You woke me up, I was grumpy.”

“And the _months_ of torment before that?”

“You would just come up behind me and poke me in the head without warning,” he reminded Yuri. “It was kind of weird.”

“Oh.” Yuri, although evidently mortified by the actions of his sixteen year old self, seemed nevertheless unrepentant. “Does that mean- can I-“

“Go ahead.” He closed his eyes as Yuri’s fingernails scraped softly through the short hairs, trying to push away the slimy, slippery whispers that ate at the edges of his mind. _Let me have this,_ he told them. His wolf rose from its slumber – it had been almost silent recently, he noticed with a jolt – and snarled at his doubts. For once, they listened, slinking off into the darkness.

“You’re just like a cat,” Yuri murmured.

“I’m more of a dog person, I think,” replied Otabek.

“Oh my god. Was that- was that a _pun?_ ” The offense in his tone was palpable, even as it faded into startled giggles. “Holy shit, Beka, go fuck yourself.”

It was easy to relax into the moment, as Yuri shook with snorts of laughter, fingers still tangled in his hair.

 _I want the rest of my life to be like this._ The thought was slow and syrupy and bittersweet. Otabek turned his head so Yuri wouldn’t see his face, wouldn’t have to worry more about him, about _them._

“Hey, Beka?” Yuri’s tone wasn’t quite upset, wasn’t quite troubled, but a tinge of unease hovered in the air, and Otabek’s stomach twisted with anxiety. “Before… before everything happened, were we dating?”

Otabek almost choked on his own tongue, sure that his life would be a lot shorter if Yuri made a habit of saying things like that without any warning.

“Because we were, you know, holding hands a lot,” continued Yuri, voice rising in pitch as he spoke faster, “and you still called me your best friend but you’d said before you wouldn’t want to date anyone who _wasn’t_ your best friend so I thought you might be, like, flirting? But when you left, I- I wasn’t sure if I was imagining the whole thing or if it was happening but you decided you didn’t want-“

“I, um. I think we were?” Tiny waves of shock rippled through him, tingling, bursting. “I was… I was sure we’d get to wherever we were going when the time was right. When we were ready.”

“I guess we were being smart, for once,” said Yuri softly. “I, uh, I almost kissed you that night, after Mila’s party.” Otabek was certain the floor had fallen out from underneath him, leaving them floating in midair, spinning dizzily. “When you saved that dog- _oh._ Oh, fuck. That was it, wasn’t it? When you were bitten.”

Otabek shrugged with his free shoulder, the other pressed against Yuri’s leg.

“I think so. It must have been. But you-“

“Goddammit, I was _there._ I can’t fucking believe-“

“Yura,” whispered Otabek. _Please don’t, this isn’t your fault._ “Yura, you didn’t know, you couldn’t have. Neither of us could have known.”

“I should have stopped you anyway.” Regret bubbled, tight and breathless. “I knew it was a stupid idea, you were being a good person, but _I_ wasn’t, I just let you go down while I waited around.”

“No, Yura, _no.”_ Otabek sat up and Yuri leaned into him. “It happened. It would have happened to someone-“ _maybe you, I’m so glad it wasn’t you-_ “or that werewolf might have died there.”

 _Did they know where they were, who they were,_ what _they were,_ he wondered, as he had countless times before. _Did they remember me?_

“Okay. Shit.” Yuri pulled Otabek closer, and again he thought that he never wanted to be anywhere except _here._ “I didn’t mean to freak out on you there.”

“It’s okay.” Strands of blond hair tickled his face, and Otabek let his head fall onto Yuri’s shoulder. _He almost kissed me. It was real. We could have been-_

“Beka, I… do you want to do it again?” Yuri tensed against him. “Figure things out.”

This time, it wasn’t such a shock, but the breath was still squeezed from his lungs.

“You- even though-“ Otabek bit his lip against the onslaught of _wants_ and _shouldn’ts_ and _what ifs._ “Are you sure?”

“Yes. No matter what.” Yuri’s eyes shone, but the sparkle was borne from certainty instead of tears. “I know a lot has changed. I don’t want to rush into anything. And I think… we might have a bit of a communication problem. We should probably work on that.”

“Yeah. I- thank you.” He smiled into the crook of Yuri’s neck. _Thank you for everything, for staying with me._ Getting close to him was like grabbing a handful of broken glass, but Yuri _knew,_ and was still determined to embrace the seconds before the cuts began to sting and bleed. _Don’t let me hurt you. Please._ “I’d like that. To figure things out.”


	23. Chapter 23

“Chris, I think you should practice pretending not to know me,” said Viktor, clamping the phone between his ear and shoulder.

“Oh, believe me, I’m tempted. You’re lucky you’re pretty.” Chris heaved a sigh, languid and deep. “You have two weeks. Enough time to fess up, I might add.”

“ _We_ have two weeks,” Viktor insisted. “This was your plan, I need you to help. Also, do you think Yuuri has been to all the museums yet?”

* * *

**PC:** thank goodness thats settled

 **PC:** i have grey hairs now

 **YP:** that’s because you’re a geezer

 **PC:** im NOT

 **YP:** you’re like thirty. that’s old.

 **PC:** nO???

 **PC:** im 25

 **PC:** see how you feel in a few years

 **YP:** … (:

 **PC:** wait no

 **YP:** memory loss can be an early sign of aging.

 **PC:** what happened to respecting your elders?

 **PC:** but seriously i almost had a heart attack

 **YP:** ?

 **PC:** i didnt know viktor and yuuri got their Thing figured out

 **PC:** last week yuuri was just, hey, viktor’s coming to an interview, isn’t that great

 **PC:** i was Drunk and Confused

PC: but he mentioned it again today so i guess its cool now

 

            Yuri dropped his phone like it was silver-plated. He’d talked to Viktor, and that hadn’t worked, and then there was Otabek, and he…

            Forgot.

            _Fuck._

            But if Viktor was going to an interview (being interviewed?), he _had_ to know. Probably. And he hadn’t mentioned it to Yuri because he was embarrassed. Which also meant that he _didn’t_ know that Yuri had kind of, sort of, _maybe_ gone out of his way to prolong the misunderstanding.

            He told himself that the twisting flutter in his stomach was relief.

 

 **YP:** oh

 **YP:** yeah

* * *

“Yuri, is that show almost over?”

Molten glass poured across the screen, smoking and hissing as it was twisted into delicate spirals. Yuri watched with disinterest as the maker inspected her creation, frowning at some invisible flaw in the swiftly hardening material, before tossing it into a corner heaped with other discards.

“No,” snapped Yuri. Crystalline shards scattered across stained cement as the voiceover droned on about the tragedy of destruction. _Toughen up, snowflake._ “It’s not.”

“I didn’t know you were interested in, er, glassblowing, is it?” A soft whine was creeping into Viktor’s voice.

“Well, maybe I am.” He wasn’t, but the musical, tinkling crashes and sun-yellow glow of fire soothed the edges of his ragged nerves.

“The Grand Prix Final broadcast is starting in a couple of minutes. Short programs today.”

“Good for them.” Yuri didn’t take his eyes off the screen, his boredom from moments earlier replaced with the urge, the _need,_ to keep watching, not because he wanted to, but because the wheedling edge in Viktor’s tone scraped against his temper like nails on a chalkboard.

Viktor sighed. Yuri’s irritation flared into sparks and needles.

“I’m sure this is online, Yuri, do you think you could-“

“Find a livestream or something.”

The bait fell flat, ignored. Viktor sat down on the couch next to him.

“Yuri, what’s wrong?”

“You tell me.” He dropped the remote to the floor and rose from the sofa, storming off before Viktor could brush off more of his petty barbs with that gentle understanding when he _didn’t_ understand, when Yuri himself couldn’t explain the itching under his skin, except that it felt like the world was slipping out of his fingers again, swirling and crashing around him and he couldn’t hold on through the dizzying plummet. “I’m going for a walk.”

A pang of guilt prompted Yuri to grab a backpack from the hall closet, but it didn’t stop him from slamming the front door as he left and stomping down to the station. Cold air nipped at his exposed arms as he walked, crawling tendrils burrowing through muscle and into bone and he gritted his teeth, not from discomfort, but against feathery thrills of fear and doubt.

The steel benches set into the platform pressed into his back like ice. Yuri leaned against the wall instead, twisting his fingers through his hair, pulling it up and letting the locks fall back against his neck, stray strands tickling like spider webs.

By the time Otabek stepped off the train, both his hair and his mind were in knots.

“You’re late,” he muttered as the doors closed with a pneumatic _hiss,_ and the gentle greeting in Otabek’s eyes faded into worry. “Fuck, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yura?” Otabek jumped slightly as his hand touched Yuri’s shoulder. “You’re freezing. We should go back to the house.”

“I’m fine.” He shook off Otabek’s hand. Room temperature was one thing, but the temperature had dropped close to zero. “You can go. I needed to get out.”

“What’s wrong?” What _wasn’t_ wrong? Why the hell did everyone feel the need to ask him that, why did _Otabek_ ask that, when he- “Are… are you mad at me?”

Yuri stared.

“Beka, why the fuck would I be mad at you?”

Otabek shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets and looked away. “Do you want a list?”

“Stop that. I’m not mad at you.” Yuri stopped, considering, and Otabek must have noticed the hesitation in his scowl.

“Communicate,” murmured Otabek, shrugging off his coat and wrapping it around Yuri’s shoulders. The silky lining was warm against his neck. He pulled it more tightly around himself, absentmindedly poking his fingers through a set of holes torn in one shoulder as he tried to sort out the tangled mess of his thoughts.

“I’m just… pissed off. I can’t- I can’t do anything,” he growled, directionless rage giving way to frustration. The clarity of his thoughts slipped away with the last of the lingering heat of Otabek’s leather jacket. “And yeah, a lot of it involves you, but it’s not _with_ you.”

“So you’re angry in my general direction?” Otabek raised an eyebrow, teasing but serious.

Yuri shrugged.

“… I guess so.” He took the coat off, eyeing Otabek’s bare arms even as he regretted losing the comforting weight. “Here. Thanks. Really, you can go back. I’m okay.”

“Okay-okay, or just okay?”

“I have to apologize to Viktor,” admitted Yuri. “I was… you know. Me. But I don’t want to, so I’m staying out here for a while instead.”

Otabek put his coat back on, but didn’t move away.

“And he’s watching the Grand Prix Final. So. Yeah.”

“Ah. Want company?” Yuri nodded at Otabek’s wry smile. “Can I hug you, or will you bite me?”

Yuri dropped his eyes to the cement platform. “I’m really cold and I feel gross.”

“You’re not gross, Yura. No biting?” Otabek stepped forward and Yuri leaned into him, resting his chin on the top of Otabek’s head before rubbing his cheek against the velvety bristles of his undercut. Warmth enveloped him, chasing away some of the anxiety that had begun to build and crystallize under his skin. Otabek pulled his jacket tighter around them both.

“You need bigger clothes,” Yuri said suddenly, and Otabek’s questioning hum thrummed against his chest. “Your coat is too small to zip up with both of us.”

Otabek chuckled quietly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Yuri disentangled himself as the next train pulled into the station, although no passengers stepped through the doors in either direction. The quick glance they shared reminded Yuri that he was still fluent in the unspoken language that had been built between them; neither wanted to go back into the city with its rushes of light and life. Instead, they wandered down to the street and towards a park set into the edge of town. During the day, it was probably frequented by children and their parents, dog walkers and joggers and old people who fed the chipmunks. At night, bored teenagers looking for the thrill of safe rebellion took over, smoking and drinking and worrying about their futures.

“It reminds me of St. Petersburg,” commented Otabek, leaning his head against Yuri’s shoulder.

Yuri cast his eyes over the tiny, circular pond, wondering if the ducks had already left for warmer climates. “There’s a place a lot like this near my grandpa’s house, too. I used to come here a lot.”

The pond in Moscow was bigger, closer to an actual lake. In spring, his grandfather had handed him bags of chopped vegetables to toss to the water birds – the geese had been nearly as tall as Yuri then, with tempers to rival his own burgeoning attitude. He had been equal parts elated and terrified the year a pair of swans made their nest along the western shore, returning every day to catch a glimpse of the scraggly grey chicks. Yuri had been devastated when autumn fled, carrying with it the stately birds and their now-dignified babies, until Nikolai helped him lace up his first pair of skates and join what seemed to be the entirety of Moscow, sweeping across the newly frozen lake. His grandmother had taken pictures from the side, photos blurred by the tremor in her hands but no less perfect for it.

Otabek walked closer to the water, snagging a length of fishing line from the dry, wizened stalks of weeds, glancing around for a trash bin before shrugging and sticking it in his pocket. He caught Yuri’s eye, but Yuri shook his head and hung back, wary of the muddy depths.

“I don’t know if it counts as running water,” he explained, dragging the toe of his shoe along the gravel path. “There’s a stream on the other side. I’d rather not find out.”

He didn’t miss Otabek’s considering appraisal of their surroundings, the mental categorization of _safe_ and _not safe._

“It’s not like lava or anything,” Yuri rushed to assure him. “More of an… off button?”

Otabek didn’t look completely convinced. “There’s a trail through the woods. It goes past your house.” Yuri lifted an eyebrow. “I go running sometimes, if I can’t sleep,” Otabek replied to the unspoken question.

“Oh. A lot?”

“Occasionally,” he said, looking away as if expecting Yuri to scold him.

“You should take some pictures for me,” Yuri said instead.

“Of the park?” He tilted his head.

“And you,” replied Yuri quietly. “I’ve never seen it during the day. And you always looked happier when it was sunny.”

 _I miss it,_ he would have said, except for the lump in his throat. _I feel like I’m keeping you away from it._ He wrapped his arms around himself.

“We can go back if you’re too cold,” Otabek said, his dark eyes flickering with worry. “I’ll take pictures.”

Yuri shook his head, pulling Otabek to a nearby bench instead, starbursts flaring in his heart when Otabek gently tugged Yuri down onto his lap.

“It’s not… physically uncomfortable, unless it’s _really_ cold,” he murmured, snuggling back into Otabek’s arms. “That’s- that’s probably why you didn’t meet any of us in Russia. The winters are too bad and too long. I don’t know about everywhere else though.”

“I avoided communities after I realized I couldn’t go back,” Otabek replied softly. “None of my other questions seemed important anymore.”

 _And then I screwed everything up even more,_ thought Yuri. A new wave of shame rolled over him, and he shivered with nerves. _Viktor’s going to be so upset. With me._

“Beka, I- I fucked up,” Yuri choked out around the guilt that stilled his tongue.

Otabek stiffened, a rush of air hitching in his lungs. Yuri turned to look at him as Otabek closed his eyes, letting his forehead drop to Yuri’s shoulder.

“Beka?”

“How long?” Otabek breathed, the words sounding far away, echoing against the sudden silence.

“What? I didn’t- you think I-“ He put his palm on Otabek’s cheek, hating the ashy undertone that had slipped under the tan skin, the fast, ragged pulse beating under his hand. “Look at me.”

“I can’t wonder what you’re seeing every time you look at me.” Otabek didn’t lift his head. His voice was a hoarse whisper, forming frosty white clouds in the night air. “How long?”

“Otabek Altin, I didn’t fucking ask how long you’re going to live,” Yuri said, a rising note of hysteria making his voice sharp, the edges shrill. “You asked me not to and I’m not going to fucking lie and say I didn’t think about it anyway, but you’re the only person who has ever let me make my own decisions and you- you think I could just take that choice away from you?”

“You… you didn’t.” He started to breath again, the soft exhale almost lost in the cool breeze. “You don’t know.”

“I wouldn’t. I want you to trust me,” said Yuri, understanding as he spoke that _trust_ was a spiny, prickly trap between the two of them, a minefield of secrets and mistakes. “I did- I asked Viktor how much he knew about werewolves. So if he might spring it on you, you’d be able to… He doesn’t know anything, basically. He offered to find you werewolves to talk to. And I- I wanted to ask, but I will never go behind your back on that. But I did… I asked him if you could turn into a vampire, just in case, and he said it’s only humans.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Yuri could see Otabek packing the information into secure little boxes in his mind, to be inspected and worked through or hidden away forever. His face cleared. They’d talk about it later. _Later, later, always later._ “What, um. What were you going to say before?”

“I…” Yuri frowned. “Shit, I forgot.”

“You said you messed up?”

“Oh. Right.” It didn’t seem so overwhelming anymore, Yuri realized; he was pretty sure Otabek had given him whatever the vampire equivalent of a heart attack was, and tiny threads of fear were still winding through his chest. “I- I really, really did. Viktor thought- um, thinks- that Yuuri and Phichit were vampire hunters.”

A surprised laugh fell from Otabek’s lips.

“And, uh. I was pissed off at him. When he invited Yuuri over for dinner. Because I was scared. And also – also that was the night after you found me.” He winced at the memory of his conviction that Otabek had to go, immediately. “I figured it out but… I didn’t tell Viktor. And I. Um. I told Yuuri not to bring up vampire stuff with Viktor.”

Otabek stroked his hair soothingly, bemused and concerned.

“I thought they’d figure it out, but I- I didn’t care, I told myself it was funny, but I was angry and I wanted, like, fucking revenge or something, even though he was just trying to do what was right or whatever.”

“He didn’t ask you.” A tiny crease formed between Otabek’s eyebrows. Yuri blinked, surprised. “You’ve always gotten upset when people try to control your life, Yura.”

“Oh. It’s that-“

“Obvious?” Otabek’s eyes softened. “Yeah. But… Phichit?”

“I panicked. Made him promise not to tell. Viktor didn’t recognize him from skating, so… To be honest, I still have no idea how Phichit ended up here. I didn’t even know he retired.” Otabek poked Yuri in the side, nudging him back on topic. “Phichit made me promise to tell Viktor that they’re not hunters. And I tried. Kind of. But I didn’t want to explain that it was my fault, and he freaked out about me being reckless and naïve instead of listening, so I got pissed off again, and then… A lot of stuff started happening. And I. I forgot about it.”

“Wow.” Otabek rubbed his back, leaving trails of heat across Yuri’s shoulders. “And he still thinks…”

“Apparently not? Phichit said he’s helping them with an interview or something.” He bit his lip. “But he’s going to talk to Yuuri sometime, and find out, and I- yeah.”

“You have to apologize.” It was easier to have someone else say it out loud.

“I feel like shit.”

“This is why you’ve been tense for the past couple days?”

Yuri nodded. “Did- did you think I was mad at you the whole time?”

“No,” said Otabek, but corrected himself. “I worried that you were, sometimes.”

“Fucking communication problems,” Yuri growled. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault.”

“We’re learning,” murmured Otabek, kissing Yuri’s neck. “When you talk to Viktor, I can be there.”

“He’s not going to shut up about the Grand Prix tonight,” muttered Yuri, winding his fingers through Otabek’s hair. “Can you… can you remind me tomorrow? So I can’t make myself forget again.”

“Yeah. You can do this.”

“Mmngh,” managed Yuri, as Otabek’s lips brushed the curve of his jaw.

* * *

 

 **KY:** oh no i’m so sorry, we had to reschedule the interview

 **KY:** we forgot about how big christmas is here. if you can’t make it that’s fine.

 **VN:** No, don’t worry. I said I would be there. When is it?

 **KY:** um

 **KY:** three hours

 **KY:** i’m really sorry

 **VN:** Can you send me the address? I’ll meet you there.

 

            Viktor wished he was more like Yuri, and could get some modicum of relief by throwing his phone into – or through – the wall.

 

 **VN:** Chris

 **CG:** yes?

 **VN:** Three hours, Chris.

 **CG:** stuff came up

 **VN:** CHRIS

 

            The hour-long shower didn’t do much to calm his nerves, but the lingering glow of warmth was pleasant anyway. However, it couldn’t chase away the nauseating, insistent thoughts that he’d been technically lying to his boyfriend for weeks, and was about to either come clean or be found out in what may or may not be the most embarrassing and second-most heartbreaking moment of his second life.

            In the kitchen, Yuri leapt to his feet as Viktor rushed through the hall. Otabek stayed where he was, looking more troubled than usual.

            “Oi, Viktor,” he called.

            Viktor paused with his hand on the door, forcing himself not to glance at his watch; he wasn’t late yet.

            “What’s up, Yuri?”

            “You’re busy,” said Yuri flatly.

            “Something came up, but it’s not an emergency. I have a minute.”

            “How are things with…” Yuri scowled, but the grimace was half-hearted at best. “Katsuki?”

            “They’re fine, Yuri!” _For the next hour, at least._ Viktor grinned, going for cheerful and falling somewhere around hysterical. “Don’t worry about it, I know you’ve had a lot to deal with recently.”

            “I- we should-“ Yuri kicked the wall, stopping his foot at the last moment so he left only a scuff instead of a hole. “I want to talk to you. When you get back.”

            “If it’s important-“

            “I said when you get back,” snapped Yuri.

* * *

           _Oh god oh god oh god._ Yuuri paced back and forth across the sidewalk, listening to the tinny ringtone through his phone’s speaker before it was cut off with a _click._

            “Phichit,” he gasped. “Where are you?”

            “I’ll be there soon,” Phichit replied, his voice almost as ragged as Yuuri’s nerves. “There was construction or something, the bus took a different route and I got off at the wrong stop. Start without me, you don’t have to make him wait.”

            “Okay,” said Yuuri, forcing himself to take a deep breath. “Okay. Call me if there’s any more problems.”

            As he hung up, Viktor trotted around the corner and greeted Yuuri with a quick kiss on the cheek. His lips were cold, a soothing balm against the flush of anxiety that burned across Yuuri’s face.

            “Long day?”

            Yuuri nodded. That about covered it.

            “We’ve rented a small conference room for interviews,” he answered to Viktor’s questioning glance. “The doors are locked after nine pm, but we have a key. Phichit was supposed to get here first and unlock it – oh, no, he’s early.”

            A tall, pale man sauntered towards them, green eyes glinting behind wire-rimmed spectacles. He spared Viktor nothing more than a disinterested once-over before turning back to Yuuri, offering a gloved hand.

            “Thank you for meeting with me again,” said Yuuri, slipping into what he hoped was a professional, academic demeanor. The man’s hand was cold through the thin leather. The cuff of his dress shirt were damp and icy where it brushed Yuuri’s wrist. “Your assistance is truly invaluable to our research.”

            “It’s my pleasure,” came the purred response. “Your work could make a big difference.”

            “We certainly hope so,” Yuuri replied. “As we discussed earlier, my partner, a translator, will be joining us tonight, as is Viktor Nikiforov, who will be lending his… expertise. Viktor, this is-“ _shit, I still don’t know his name-_ “Unfortunately, Phichit was held up, but he will be here shortly.”

            As if on cue, Phichit darted around the same corner Viktor had appeared from minutes earlier, panting as he smoothed his ruffled hair and shirt.

            “My apologies for the delay,” he choked out, coughing on the dry winter air as he fumbled through his pockets with numb fingers. “I hope you don’t mind if I hold off on official introductions until we’re inside and warming up- _Chris?_ ”

            Yuuri blinked. Viktor whimpered quietly beside him as the man- vampire?- _guest_ froze, mouth agape.

            “Phichit… _Chulanont,_ ” he murmured, one corner of his lips twitching into a smile. “Oh, Viktor.”

Chris - that _had_ to be his name, and apparently he knew Phichit already – gestured towards the door, delicately removing one glove and touching one fang with the tip of a slender finger. Yuuri, trying not to retch, bit his own lip hard enough to draw blood as Chris grasped the sharp tip and pulled it from his gum, revealing a healthy, white, _human_ (appearing) tooth underneath.

“Let’s go in,” said Chris, ignoring the look of shock (Yuuri), confusion (Phichit), and horrified dismay (Viktor) as he turned to the door. “It seems we need to talk.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to all of you who are finishing, starting, or in the middle of exams. You can do this!

Yuuri wanted to dance.

When the earth was unsteady beneath him, he’d always sought refuge in the space between music and motion, where the sprung floor always seemed to stay solid under his feet.

Instead, he ushered the small group into the darkened building after Phichit unlocked the door with fumbling fingers, wiping his glasses on the edge of his shirt in the hope that somehow clearer sight would lend him similar clarity of thought.

“Lights,” he murmured before flicking the switch, giving those with night vision a moment to close their eyes against the harsh rush of fluorescence. Viktor’s lids were half shut against the glow. Chris’s weren’t.

If he still lived at the onsen, the next morning would begin as he soaked and wrapped his battered feet, hiding the bandages under fluffy socks to avoid seeing the worried frowns that crept across his parents’ faces. Mari understood, had spent her own night as the princess dancing until her shoes were nothing more than rags, though her siren calls were the glittering lights that gleamed across alcohol-stained club floors and concerts, the writhing mass of bodies a far cry from the solitude of Yuuri’s quiet studios.

“Please sit down.” He gestured to the threadbare office chairs, their chartreuse upholstery greying and creased, weary from years of droning meetings. As Yuuri pulled out his own seat, he suppressed the urge to laugh as he wondered briefly if the worn furniture and smudged, speckled paint had ever heard anything like _this_ before. “So.”

The three pairs of eyes never left his face. Yuuri considered dropping his pen and climbing under the table to retrieve it, just for a few blessed seconds to search for his composure on the dusty carpet.

“I would like to ask a few questions.” The spring coiled in him relaxed as Chris shrugged, the roll of his shoulders saying _that’s fair_ as clearly as if he’d spoken aloud. Viktor’s eyes were wide, the dawning horror having progressed to full noon. This was a dance too, Yuuri realized, and even if he didn’t know the steps he could fake them pretty damn well. He turned to Chris first, unable to face the tangle of emotions twisting across Viktor’s expression. “You are not a vampire?”

“No,” replied Chris mildly, leaning back in his chair. “I am not.”

Viktor muttered something in what sounded like French, and Yuuri glanced sideways at Phichit. His friend steadfastly insisted that his French was subpar, conversational _at best,_ but it would have been more convincing had he not been buried in the original _Les Misérables_ at the time. However, Phichit touched his ear, his slow blink letting Yuuri know that the words had been too quiet to catch.

Chris arched one dark eyebrow at Viktor, a flurry of silent words passing between them that was more incomprehensible to Yuuri than French. _They know each other,_ a dark creature in the back of his mind insisted. _Viktor knows._ The knowledge stung, because that’s what it was; no argument could be brooked as Viktor sat up straighter, a note of accusation in his blue eyes.

“Fairy of the Summer Court,” he continued, holding Yuuri’s gaze. His accent had changed, the heavy traces of German abandoned for a soft French purr. “You likely know, then, that I cannot lie.”

 _But you don’t have to tell the truth,_ Yuuri finished in his head. The corner of Chris’s mouth curled slightly, as if he’d heard Yuuri’s thoughts and was satisfied with the conclusion. _If he was telling the truth about who he is._

“Your hand was cold,” Yuuri said slowly, buying himself another second to think.

Chris grinned without a hint of shame. “Ice water, five minutes.”

 _His sleeve was wet,_ Yuuri remembered, as Viktor let out a surprised _huh._

“Why?” _Why… all of it?_

“Someone else can explain it better than I.”

Yuuri took a deep breath. He pictured the dance studio, blurred into fuzzy familiarity without his glasses. The wooden floor of Minako’s school, always scented with cedar and smoke. The cramped practice room near his Tokyo apartment, the scuffed Marley floors leaving shadows smeared across his shoes. This dance was no longer between a danseur and his audience, but the inevitable pas de deux. His stomach sank.

“Viktor?” Wings fluttered in Yuuri’s gut, not the butterflies of before, but great birds with sharp talons and tearing beaks. “Please tell me what’s going on.”

“Yuuri, I…” Viktor heaved a sigh, a habit that had been adorable when he was the boyfriend with dramatic tendencies undiminished by his lack of need for breath, but was now an obvious attempt to delay. His voice was low and heavy, regret crackling at the edges. “I’m a vampire.”

Yuuri leaned back, nonplussed. “Well, yes.”

They stared at each other. The analyst in the back of his mind noticed Chris’s quick inhale, the deep flush spreading across Phichit’s face, but the world – _his_ world – had narrowed to the silver-haired man sitting across from him.

“You knew?” He could barely make out Viktor’s whisper. “How long?”

“Since- since we met?” Yuuri pushed his glasses up his nose and scratched at a stain on the table. His tentative hold on the situation was slipping, and it was about to fall to the floor and shatter. If Viktor hadn’t known that he knew… “I thought it wasn’t something you talked about.”

 _I thought you were shy. Yurio said-_ or had he lied, with a grin and a flash of fangs? But Viktor, _his_ Viktor, had never been shy, with his quick smiles and casual touches. And if he wasn’t – the untouched drinks, the careful avoidance, his ginger edging around certain topics – was his Viktor a mask? What had he…

He remembered Phichit’s concern that some people thought they were hunters, that the best intentions didn’t matter when a feather’s weight of suspicion hung in the air.

“Viktor, you thought-“ The lines of Viktor’s face were heavy with shame and anxiety and _fear,_ fear of him. “You _think_ that I- that we- that we’re vampire slayers?”

Mari had always known that she didn’t need to truly worry about Yuuri as long as he was dancing, even those nights she helped him peel damp shoes from his battered feet, looking away from the calloused, aching mess that was the lot of dancers who sold their souls and bodies to ballet for the few short years it would embrace them.

The carefully choreographed steps in Yuuri’s mind faltered, halted, stumbling into stillness.

“You’re… not?” Viktor’s face glowed as the tension fell away in clumps and tangles when Yuuri and Phichit shook their heads wordlessly. “You’re- you’re doing research. You’re writing a book _._ For _us._ ”

Viktor had been scared of him, and he hadn’t noticed, hadn’t thought that _of course_ they had no reason to trust him, to believe him.

            “Why?” Yuuri gestured at Chris, whose fake fangs lay on the table between them, at Viktor, at himself. “Why… all of _this?_ ”

            Viktor beamed from under his moonlit hair. “Well, we-“ Chris huffed under his breath. “ _I_ thought you were hunters, or working for them, and obviously you’re better than that! So Chris agreed to dress up and talk to you, see what you were thinking. He’s not one of us, so if something _did_ go wrong, he’d be safer. Besides, you’ve already met me, and probably most of the other vampires in Berlin, so… Anyway, I knew you wanted to help people, and I wanted to show you that there were betters ways. But you were already, so everything is fine!”

            His smile was shaped like a heart, Yuuri realized, the two needle-point fangs framed perfectly by pale lips. He had never really seen Viktor grin before- he’d been hiding his teeth.

            Chris cleared his throat quietly, breaking the spell. Yuuri and Viktor turned to him, grateful for the reprieve.

            “We’ll just leave you two to talk, then?”

            “No,” he said, the firmness of his own voice a surprise to his ears. Phichit’s face was a watercolor of guilt, and Yuuri’s heart sank a little further. He’d assembled the center of the puzzle, but the edges still lay in a scattered jumble across the floor. “You know each other?”

            “Yes,” said Phichit quietly, glancing at Viktor, his grey eyes worried. “We were both figure skaters. We competed together many times.”

            Viktor hissed something in Russian – something Yuuri was sure would cause any little old ladies to drop their purses and clutch their chests in shock, would make parents cover their children’s ears and guide them quickly away. He jumped at the sound of his name, nestled between the harsh syllables of curses, but Viktor wasn’t looking at him, and the shape of the word was wrong, rounder and shorter and-

            _“Yuri,_ ” Viktor moaned again, hiding his face in his hands. Phichit nodded silently, almost invisible behind clouds of embarrassment, Phichit who never looked more than slightly sheepish in the worst of moments. Yuuri glanced between his friend and his boyfriend ( _boyfriend?_ ), pieces falling into place with the slowness of syrup, barely touched by gravity.

            Phichit’s uncharacteristic silence the days following his first meeting with Yuri and Viktor. His immediate fondness for the boy, something softer and sharper than the easy camaraderie he found with nearly everyone. The afternoon he’d arrived back in Tokyo after a competition the first year of their friendship, leaving his gold medal wrapped in its layers of tissue paper, pride melting away as Yuuri congratulated him. _“I shouldn’t have won,”_ he’d murmured morosely, shaking his head as Yuuri insisted that he’d made history for Thailand, that he’d skated wonderfully, better than everyone else there. _“Not as well as he would have,”_ Phichit had replied. _“It should have been him. We all knew it.”_

            “It is him, isn’t it? You knew.”

            “Some,” said Phichit, hesitating for a moment. “Not about this. I’m sorry, Yuuri, I thought-“

He alone had been lost, unaware of the machinations churning around him, the secrets and machinations.

            Viktor stood up suddenly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

            “Yuuri, I know you must be a little upset about all this,” he said. “Can we talk about it soon? After I find my brother.” _Your brother,_ thought Yuuri, shocked by his own acidity. _We both know that’s not true._ “Please, Yuuri, I just wanted to help.”

            “So did I,” said Yuuri, the room blurring wetly. “I need to think.”

Phichit rose to follow him, but Yuuri turned away.

He left alone.


	25. Beginnings and Endings, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My lovely internet wife [@ViktoriousNikiforov](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ViktoriousNikiforov/pseuds/ViktoriousNikiforov) drew [wonderful art](http://victoriousnikiforov.tumblr.com/post/160565124733/vampireyuri-and-werewolfotabek-inspired-by) inspired by this story and holy shit I am still freaking out about this please go look at it now  
>    
>  **Content warning: **This chapter deals heavily with depression and anxiety. Please let me know if you would like specific warnings, I want everyone to be able to read and enjoy the story without problems.****

            It was a month since Yuri had fallen into a new world, and he wasn’t sure if he’d hit the ground yet.

            “Can you _not.”_ Yuri shot a glare at Viktor, who was hovering nearby. The outline of every tree and leaf was crisp against the darkness, painted in edges and greyscale.

            It was a world without color. Flickers of movement snagged at his attention; breezes ruffling the greenery, blinking lights of planes skittering across the sky, the flutter of brush as a small animal darted to safety.

            The rabbit in his hands wasn’t struggling anymore, but Yuri could still hear the frantic _taptaptap_ of its heartbeat. He felt the staccato rhythm fluttering against his fingers, so close it almost felt as if it was his own pulse hammering against his skin. Viktor patted his elbow.

            “I know it can be hard at first, but-“

            God, not another rambling lecture about _the circle of life_ and _sustainable consumption_ and _once you get used to it you can take a little bit and then let them go, but of course that’s easier with deer, and you’re still a beginner._

 _“I have a_ cat _,”_ Yuri had muttered, trying to shut Viktor up before he started on about squirrel families again. _“I’ve cleaned up after her enough to know how hunting works.”_

            It didn’t bother him – or at least, it hadn’t when Viktor first brought up the subject, some handful of days after their arrival in Berlin. He’d earnestly insisted that this was the _most_ important skill for Yuri to learn. That refrigerated blood meant relying on a network, sacrificing freedom and self-reliance for convenience, and who would want to drink _that_ all the time, anyway?

            Three years ago, Yuri had decided that Viktor might be a stunning choreographer, but his skills as a coach were lacking. That hadn’t changed.

            “You don’t fucking need to watch me eat,” he growled. Viktor nodded understandingly. It was his response to every one of Yuri’s outbursts, a gesture of sympathy and pity even though they might as well have been speaking different languages.

            And then it was just Yuri and the rabbit.

 _I need to eat,_ he told himself. _It’s what we do._

            The animal’s breaths were light and quick.

_It’s prey. I’ve never wanted to be a vegetarian._

            He studiously didn’t think about the summer Otabek decided to stop eating meat. Yuri had been dragged along for the ride when Otabek started cooking dinner for the two of them (three, when Mila got out of practice early) several nights a week.

            The summer evening’s air was cool, humid, and disconcertingly neutral against his skin.

            Yuri set the rabbit down on the dew-damp grass. It froze for a moment, all twitching nerves and gleaming eyes, before bolting for the underbrush.

            There was still stored blood back at Viktor’s house. He could try again tomorrow, when he was hungrier. Another attempt to shut up the reedy voice in his mind that whispered _pathetic, you can’t even feed yourself now._

            Viktor found him again several minutes later and beamed proudly. Yuri grumbled and snapped and didn’t meet his eyes.

:: :: :: 

            The soft _bump_ of the plane’s landing gear as it touched the tarmac dislodged a gritty lump of pain that had settled in Otabek’s chest. The cool Swedish air was light, unburdened with the syrupy weight of memories that whispered _this is how it used to be_ and filled his lungs with breathless reminders. The familiarity of home was supposed to seal the holes in his heart. Instead, it had only framed the still bleeding wounds, staining the corners of his childhood bedroom black and crimson.

            He rented a storage locker near the central bus station in Stockholm and paid two months in advance. A month – a month to mirror the month of a world without Yuri - would have been more than enough, but maybe he would make good on his lie and go backpacking or lose himself in the cities and streets. After another moment’s thought, he scrawled his parents’ phone number on the form. The cheap Russian mobile he’d purchased in St. Petersburg lay falling apart somewhere in an Almaty dump.

            And now… Otabek could run and hide in the back of his own mind. He could give himself over to the wolf who didn’t embrace vagaries such as regret and grief, let the wolf who was stem of _this_ bear the weight of _I was supposed to be there remind him to stop to rest to be careful._ The wolf that had stolen every trace of his life the moment it had claimed his body as its own.

            Otabek took a bus south and watched the waxing moon drift over the horizon. 

:: :: ::

            “Yuri?” Viktor knocked gently on the basement door, not expecting an answer. Yuri’s antipathy had lessened. His outbursts and insults were fading to quiet introspection, but he’d made it clear that they weren’t friends yet. It didn’t exactly hurt when Yuri had yelled that Viktor would never be his family any more than an unexpected splash of chilly water would hurt. After all, Viktor’s family, if it could be called that, had been left more than half a century in his past. He hadn’t intended to acquire a replacement as he knelt on the ice that night. “I’m going into the city for a while, do you want to come?”

            Neither of them knew how to do this. Viktor had never turned anyone before and believed he never would, while Yuri’s life lurched from _before_ to _after_ without any memories of the _between_.

            There was no reply. Viktor pulled on his shoes by the front door.

            Yuri appeared at the top of the stairs a moment. Headphones peeked out from under the hood of his sweatshirt, but no music was playing - Viktor wasn’t sure whether the last song had ended without Yuri noticing or if it was just an attempt to avoid conversation. He decided to assume the former.

            “So! I have a couple of errands,” chirped Viktor. “But there’s no rush. Anything you want to do?”

            Yuri shrugged and gave no other acknowledgement of Viktor’s words or presence as they walked outside.

            “Don’t be shy,” urged Viktor. Yuri insisted he wanted a clean break with his old life in Russia, and he’d left behind everyone besides his grandfather. It was a sentiment Viktor understood, but… Yuri needed a friend, too. “What do you enjoy? Berlin has everything, really. Besides, we’ve lived together for what, a month now, and I hardly know you!”

            “You want to get to know me?” Yuri slammed the door shut hard enough that the frame rattled. His voice was cold enough to coat the summer flowers in frost. “The last person who got to know me left without saying goodbye.”

            Viktor’s eyes widened. _I don’t have any friends,_ Yuri had said the night he finally woke up, but Viktor had dismissed his words as shock and fear.

            Maybe it wasn’t only Yuri who had decided to cut ties.

            “Do- do you want to talk?” Viktor wished that Christophe was there instead of spending the season in the unreachable realm that held the Seelie Court. Chris, underneath his easygoing charm and suggestive smirks, knew how to listen to the gaps between syllables and hear what went unsaid. Yes, Viktor could talk to people. It was child’s play to strike up a conversation with almost anyone and leave them with an impression that was as favorable as it was shallow, but Chris could _understand_ them _._

            Yuri’s shoulders hunched. He shoved his fists into his jacket pockets.

            “I want you to stop bothering me,” he hissed, turning on his heel. “I’m going for a walk.”

            “Yuri-“ _Wait,_ Viktor wanted to say, but the iron-hard set of Yuri’s back sounded like closed doors and snarled remarks.

_Space. He needs space._

            Viktor had spent days trying to pet Zoyenka, but the fluffy cat had skittered away from his hand. It wasn’t until he gave up and let her be that she’d begun to purr and twine around his ankles. Her owner was the same – if Viktor followed, Yuri would run.

            “The spare key is under the mat,” he called after Yuri. “Call me if you need anything.” 

:: :: ::

            Clumps of dirt crunched under the soles of Yuri’s shoes as he stalked between the trees, making his way along the path that led to a park and playground near the train station. The engine of Viktor’s car hummed in the distance, growing fainter each second.

            Leaving.

_Why can’t you just bite your fucking tongue for once, Plisetsky._

            He didn’t want the pity in Viktor’s eyes, not when Viktor was undoubtedly regretting turning Yuri. Viktor had saved him, only to discover he’d taken in something rude and cruel and hollow.

_What do I enjoy?_

            He’d enjoyed cooking with his grandfather – food he’d never be able to eat again. It didn’t even smell the same.

            He’d enjoyed watching shitty slasher movies with Mila and taking bets on who was going to die first. Now Mila believed he was dead, and she wasn’t _wrong._ Yuri didn’t bother trying to himself he’d ever been more than the loudmouthed obnoxious kid who tagged along after her. He’d never deserved to be more. It had taken him days to realize that when Yakov told Viktor about the _friend at the rink,_ he’d meant Mila and not Otabek.

            He’d enjoyed skating – hadn’t he?

            It wasn’t a question Yuri had asked himself. Competing and winning, yes, but loving skating was like loving his own arm or leg. It wasn’t something he enjoyed any more than he’d enjoyed breathing or the beat of his heart. It simply _was._

            Those, too, were gone. He listened to music, trying to drown out the silence of his body and replace the absence of his pulse with drums and guitar. He pulled Zoyenka closer to his chest when the bone-deep cold threatened to swallow him with thoughts of ice and darkness.

            People didn’t stay for Yuri: not his father, his mother, his grandmother. Otabek had decided enough was enough, and Mila was hot on his heels.

            Whatever reason Viktor had for helping Yuri – altruism, guilt, impulse – he’d soon realize it wasn’t worth his time. Not for someone who got himself killed doing the one thing he was supposed to be good at. Not for a _vampire_ who could only drink blood from microwaved mugs, for whom the thought of biting brought nausea and shame.

            The park was empty. Children were in bed, and the teenagers had abandoned their post on the rickety swing set. Nothing more was left behind than traces of smoke and scribbled graffiti, insisting _I was here I was here I_ am _here._

            A flock of ducks floated on the surface of the pond. They slept with their bills tucked under their wings, and Yuri kept his distance so they wouldn’t startle and fly away. Animals were wary around him, whether they were acclimated to people or not. Even Zoyenka had avoided him for a couple of days.

            He couldn’t make it on his own, not yet. Yuri couldn’t ask his grandfather to sacrifice his life to take care of him while he hid from sunlight and prying eyes. He needed Viktor, though the very thought burned him as fiercely as when he’d let his fingers brush against his grandpa’s old hawthorn walking stick. He had to keep his mouth shut, not push things to the point where Viktor figured out that the whole thing had been a mistake.

            Yuri walked back to the house along the winding road instead of retracing his steps through the woods. The scattered residences were dark aside from a few gleaming windows. His ears picked out the soft hum of music from one, a muffled argument in another.

            The yellow stucco was as unwelcoming as ever. It loomed over Yuri accusingly as he dug a key out from under the doormat. _Home,_ the walls murmured. _Not yours._

 _I don’t like this any more than you do,_ Yuri thought back, twisting the lock until it released with a soft series of clunking tumblers. The handle turned easily at his touch, but the hinges wouldn’t give. _It must be stuck_ , he told himself, ignoring the limp tension that dragged at his hand as he tried to push it open and failed.

            “Seriously, you fucking lump of useless drywall?” He kicked at the threshold. “I have a damn key.”

            Yuri fumbled for his phone to Viktor and demand that he tell his stupid house to get its shit together and let him in. He squinted against the bright light of the lock screen. Its clock read _2:03 AM._ The numbers lay over a photo of him and his grandpa. New Years Eve – Yuri had spent half the day trying to explain selfies to Nikolai and finally convinced him to join in on an example. They both wore flour-covered aprons and matching grins with one corner of their lips curled more than the other in some quirk of Plisetsky genetics. He pretended Otabek wasn’t lurking invisibly to one side, out of frame, cake batter smeared across one cheek.

            He’d been smiling, too.

            There were two numbers saved in Yuri’s new phone. His thumb hovered over Viktor’s contact information. He would be back soon anyway. Sunrise was in… four hours? Or was it three? Yuri didn’t need to call Viktor and make a nuisance of himself. If he was dragged back to invite Yuri in, it would only remind them both that Yuri wasn’t supposed to be here, that he _shouldn’t_ be here. Maybe Viktor had decided to take a night away from the whiny stray and wouldn’t even answer.

            Yuri chewed at his lip and winced as one fang broke through the soft skin, sitting down with his back against the night-chilled house. Viktor would be back soon. The rough surface bit into his shoulders, somehow cold against his spine even though he knew it was the same temperature as his body. Hours until sunrise. Moonlight seeped through the trees, staining his chalk-pale skin silver. Viktor would be back.

            People didn’t stay for Yuri.

            People didn’t come back for Yuri.

            What was a house, anyway? Viktor himself had admitted he didn’t spend much time in it.

            Yuri was cold, but his body refused to shiver.

            _The last person who got to know me left without saying goodbye._

Needles prickled through his limbs, pinning Yuri to the cement of the front porch. He pulled his knees to his chest as the world drew in around him and shrank to the door and the step and the cool wall against his back.

            All at once, it seemed absurd: hunching next to a house whose magical boundaries had decided he didn’t belong, because he was a vampire and vampires didn’t even _exist_ in his world until his old choreographer had shown up and turned him into a creature of the night for no discernable reason. It sounded like make-believe, a child’s story. Yuri’s body felt frozen, as if the stucco against his skin was ice instead of plaster, as if-

            The certainty hit him suddenly. It would have knocked the air from his lungs if they’d had any breath to give up.

_This isn’t real._

            How long had it been since he’d fallen?

            Minutes, perhaps, stretched into a month of fantasy and carried by the floating wings of dream logic. Yuri had never put weight into the concept of someone’s life flashing before their eyes like a movie. It was nothing more than a myth meant to soften the inevitable blow and sand the edges off of fear – and yet, isn’t that what was happening to him between the surreal twists and turns? He thought about his life, about who he had been, and watched it slip further away with each passing second.

            _Viktor._ Why had his subconscious chosen Viktor, a man he hadn’t seen since the month of nighttime lessons three years before? Why couldn’t it have been his grandfather, giving them a few more precious weeks even if it wasn’t real? For fuck’s sake, even _Otabek_ would have been better _,_ as fucking pathetic as that would make him _._ At least Yuri would get some sort of closure, instead of… this.

            Yuri let his head fall forward to rest against his knees. Strands of his hair tickled the back of his neck, slithering, trickling. He tried not to think about the ruin of oozing blood that must be matting his hair in clumps and painting the ice beneath him.

 _Fuck,_ he was so cold.

            Sunrise. It wasn’t hard to guess what sunrise, creeping ever closer, meant in the twisted symbolism of his hallucination. Time was passing strangely. It wavered around him in ripples and waves, _hours seconds minutes_ flowing and shifting, twisting through the air as he waited

waited

for light

and darkness

and nothing.

:: :: ::

            Viktor spent the night wondering if it was the right choice to give Yuri space. It had been what Yuri had wanted, maybe what he’d needed. He wasn’t a child, no matter how young he was in Viktor’s eyes. Still… you weren’t _supposed_ to leave people when they were upset. You were supposed to comfort them.

            He’d never been much good at that.

            Relief bloomed when he pulled into the driveway at half past three, catching sight of a now-familiar blond figure sitting by the front door. Yuri was waiting for him. Viktor allowed himself to hope that they were finally making progress.

            The key dangled precariously from the lock, as if it had been abandoned midway through the process of opening the door. Concern sprouted and leaves of worry unfurled as Viktor noticed Yuri’s hunched shoulders. He was curled in on himself, retreating from the world.

            “Yuri?” Viktor wanted to assume that Yuri had simply fallen asleep, but the key stared at him from the lock and Yuri’s eyes were open and glassy behind a fringe of hair. Yuri didn’t respond when he touched his arm, and Viktor’s unease began to branch into fear. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Did something happen?”

            It didn’t make sense. Vampires didn’t get injured or sick the way humans did: either something brought them to an immediate and complete halt, or it was minor enough to be brushed off. Pain was not pressing enough to warrant much notice if it no longer served as a warning.

            The knowledge, borne of books and distant memories, did little to reassure him in the face of Yuri’s motionless form.

            “Come on, let’s get you inside,” murmured Viktor. Yuri didn’t resist as Viktor lifted him to his feet. He seemed surprised to find himself upright and let Viktor lead him into the house as if unaware of the movement, and he collapsed onto the sofa the moment Viktor released his arm. The light touch was evidently the only thing lending him the strength to move. Yuri blinked up at Viktor, his face shifting from blank to vaguely perplexed.

            “You’re back,” he said tonelessly. Even without a hint of inflection, it sounded more like a question than a statement.

            “I’m back,” agreed Viktor. “Yuri, please tell me what’s wrong.”

            It had taken Yuri so long to wake up: three days of waiting, another two trapped on the border of consciousness. Fear had nagged at Viktor and nipped at his heels. Had he done something wrong, was he too late, had Yuri not turned properly? The same doubts rose once more. What if something was _wrong?_ Yuri slumped further. His eyes were half-closed, and a drop of thick dark blood welled on his bottom lip. Tiny pinpricks of other marks, already half-healed, were scattered around it.

            Viktor gingerly sat next to him, ready to pull away. Infringing on Yuri’s religiously maintained personal space was an intrusion that would normally result in a snarled curse and quick sidestep - but _normal_ didn’t entail finding Yuri crumpled in a limp heap by the door.

            A hug would be too much, a pat on the shoulder too stiff and distant. Viktor settled for stroking Yuri’s hair. He wished he knew how to reach out to people like Chris did, or even talk to them in Yakov’s gruff yet sincere manner.

 _His cat,_ thought Viktor, _I should find his cat._ It was impossible to miss the way Yuri clung to Zoyenka. He spent most of his time with her in his arms or curled up in his lap, and somehow, Viktor had to coax Yuri into telling him what was going on and how to fix it.

            He debated calling someone, one of the doctors who specialized in the more or less than human, though the chance they could help was slim.

            Yuri flinched as Viktor’s fingers brushed the back of his head, and he let out a quiet, airless gasp. His eyes were wide and empty – it was a hollowness Viktor recognized from the countless days he’d spent trying to forget the sensation of his own blood coursing down his neck, hot against the wrong side of his skin.

            He silently cursed himself and his hope that Yuri’s missing memories wouldn’t cast a shadow in his mind.

            “Yuri, you’re okay, I need you to trust me for a minute,” Viktor murmured. He lifted Yuri’s hands from where they lay, fingers digging into the fabric of his jeans. Yuri grimaced, his face twisting through fear and into panic before resignation set in, and he let Viktor press his hands to the back of his neck without resisting. “It happened, but you’re fine now, I promise.”

            Yuri’s fingers traced the curve of bone underneath unmarred skin and closed his eyes.

:: :: ::

            Wake up.

            Eat.

            Ignore the lethargy that hung heavy in his limbs as Viktor assured him they could go out hunting in an hour.

            Feed Zoyenka.

            Get dressed. Follow Viktor into the woods. Forget the sick pang that scraped against his ribs as Viktor smiled understandingly and gave him space.

            Release the rabbit or squirrel or deer and re-emerge, _pretend pretend pretend._

            Slip away when the cold buried itself too deeply in his body, _everything is fine,_ curl up under the covers clutching the back of his neck.

            Go with Viktor when he went out. Don't let the walls of the house close around him, reminding him that he doesn’t belong.

Force a smile when Viktor patted his shoulder, saying how well Yuri was adjusting, how proud he was.

            The routine was safe and grey and cold.

The days smeared, blending together into an unending, colorless streak.

:: :: :: 

            The house was quiet when Viktor woke up, and quiet as he settled in the library.

            Yuri was doing better, and the night of tense, stony panic had remained a solitary event. They’d fallen into a comfortable pattern when Yuri had stopped fighting him, avoiding him, pushing back against everything – he’d started to trust Viktor, finally. There was no more yelling.

Yuri wasn’t the insolent, aggressive fifteen year old he’d gotten to know three years ago, Viktor realized. He’d grown up.

            The equinox approached, bringing Christophe and relief on an autumn breeze. While Viktor had many acquaintances, there were very few he would consider friends.

Among those, there was only one he asked for advice.

            August passed quickly. It gave way to September with barely a whimper, and Viktor wished he didn’t notice that his house had begun to feel empty again.

Sometimes, he could have forgotten that he didn’t live alone anymore.

:: :: :: 

            Chris woke his boyfriend with a kiss and sprawled out on the bed next to him.

            The static noise of Berlin, of _this_ place, buzzed under his skin: it hummed with iron and industry after a season of peace. As a changeling, it was easier for him to move between one realm and the next, less of a strain to withstand the constant pressure of humanity – still, he had to laugh when those with more stationary lives complained about daylight savings and jetlag.

            “Hey,” murmured Luca, smiling sleepily. “Welcome home, _mon coeur_.”

            Chris wished, in the syrupy warmth between them, that he wasn’t spread across such a distance, straddling two lives that intertwined but would never meld. Then Luca kissed him back. They met in the middle like smoke and air, and he remembered that returning was its own gift.

            “Viktor asked you to call him when you got back,” Luca said later as he traced the curve of Chris’s jaw with one fingertip. “He said there was a _thing._ ”

            “A _thing,_ hmm? Sounds like Viktor,” replied Chris. “Catch me up?”

            “World news or skating news?”

            “That’s ominous. Start with skating.”

           

            Chris called Viktor that evening.

            “Hey, honey, I’m home,” he purred. Luca, ever thoughtful, had charged his cell phone the night before and updated the software to spare Chris the frustrations of three months’ worth of software tweaks and restarts.

            “Chris!” Viktor’s beaming smile was audible through the speaker, although – if Chris’s ears didn’t deceive him – it was a bit strained. “Did you have a good summer?”

            “I have some stories for you, but I’m nowhere _near_ drunk enough to tell them right now. Anyway, Luca told me about what happened here. Is Yakov… dealing?”

            “He’s taking a year’s sabbatical,” came Viktor’s quiet reply. “The rink lost a lot of skaters after the accident. Juniors, mostly. Their parents – they were worried.”

            “Shit,” sighed Chris. Yuri Plisetsky had been, in the kindest terms, a difficult person (and perhaps more accurately, a spoiled brat who approached everything with tantrums and arrogance). However, Feltsman had a tendency to all but adopt his students. “But is he okay, losing his student like that?”

            “Uh, yes.” Viktor cleared his throat. “About that, actually, I. Um.”

            “… Oh. I’m sorry, Vitya. You knew him too.” Chris didn’t need a confirmation – he’d have recognized Viktor’s hand in _Agape_ the moment Plisetsky had set foot on the ice even if he hadn’t known about Viktor’s impulsive agreement. It was one Chris hadn’t expected him to fulfill. However, Viktor insisted he saw something of himself in Yuri, and if he was more charitable in his evaluations than Chris – well, that was very human of him.

            “So, good news,” Viktor said after a moment of tense silence that set Chris’s teeth on edge. “I kind of made Yuri a vampire?”

            Overall, Christophe considered himself a patient person. A kind person, even. One who did his best to forgive others their mistakes and let go of grudges. However-

            “You… why?”

            “I was there. I couldn’t just do nothing, Chris. He deserved more than that.”

            “A lot of people deserve more than that, Viktor. You don’t have to give up your life for all of them.”

            “I don’t regret it.” An undercurrent of steel shot through Viktor’s voice. “What would you have done?”

            “I don’t think you want me to answer that,” replied Chris. “I’m- _we’re-_ not like you. Self-sacrifice isn’t in my nature. You know that already.”

            “I know you two didn’t get along,” said Viktor, softening slightly. “But Yuri… he’s grown up a lot. He’s a good kid. And I- I need your help.”

            Chris ran his fingers through his hair. “I’ll do it for you. He never gave me a reason to care for him, Viktor. I can’t start just because you want me to.” He sighed. “What do you need me to do?”

            “Can you… talk to him?” And _god,_ if that didn’t make Chris question why he had friends. Volunteering to get yelled at and insulted by an angry teenager wasn’t on his list of things to do his first week back. “You knew him before. More than I did, at least. He won’t talk to anyone else.”

            “I’ll come over tomorrow. I’m spending today with Luca.”

            “Thank you, Chris.”

            There were stories and songs about the aos sídhe, and many had but one piece of advice: don’t thank the fae, because debt is more than words.

            But then, Viktor always did put more weight in trust than sayings. 

:: :: ::

            Chris greeted Viktor with a hug and a kiss on each cheek.

            “Let’s do this,” he said, and Viktor refrained from suggesting they switch from French to English so as not to exclude Yuri. “Did you tell him about me?”

            “I thought that part might be easier with you here,” Viktor told him, and turned to the kitchen. “Hey, Yuri, do you remember Christophe Giacometti?”

            Viktor peered around the doorway. Yuri sat at the table, picking at a stain on the wood. He shrugged.

            “Well, he’s kind of like us,” Viktor went on. “Not a vampire, but- he came over to say hi, I’ll let him explain.”

            Yuri barely glanced up as Viktor pushed Chris into the kitchen. Nothing more than a brief flicker of surprise crossed his face.

            “Hey, Yuri,” said Chris. “It’s been a while.”

            Viktor started a pot of coffee for Chris and watched them out of the corner of his eye.

            Another shrug, more of a twitch of his shoulder than anything, and Yuri continued to scrape at the table with his fingernail. Chris kept talking. He was unfailingly polite as always, but his eyebrows inched upwards behind wire-rimmed glasses. Yuri replied with only single syllables and short gestures, more or less courteous but decidedly unengaged.

            Viktor wondered if the animosity between them had been an exaggeration, but Christophe didn’t tend to exaggerate.  

            The conversation petered out before Chris could take more than a few sips of coffee, and Yuri wandered back to the basement without another word.

Viktor sat down.

            Chris frowned. “He’s… different.”

            Viktor’s heart sank. “I thought he was adjusting,” he murmured. “But he’s not, is he? He’s not happy.”

            “I don’t think so.”


	26. Beginnings and Endings, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spectrometon drew lovely amazing art inspired by this story, please go look at it now, I cried a little. https://spectrometon.tumblr.com/post/160719436197/angry-vampire-yuri-with-sad-werewolf-otabek-is-my 
> 
>  
> 
>  **Content warnings:** Not very graphic but disturbing descriptions of injury, angst, general Bad Stuff. Etc. You know the drill by now, but there's a lot of it here, so use caution.
> 
> This segment picks up fairly soon after the end of the last chapter - the first scene takes place in early-mid October, about two and a half months after Yuri's accident.

Yuri stared into the mirror. No reflection looked back at him, so he inspected the tiled bathroom wall behind him. Warm water trickled from his hair, down the back of his neck, as he yanked the brush through his tangled, shoulder-length hair. The droplets slithered across his skin, growing thicker, hotter, sticky –

He clutched the edge of the sink. _It's just water, Plisetsky, get a grip._ A snarl of his hair was tangled in the teeth of the comb, refusing to relinquish two (or was it three? Five?) days’ worth of hard-earned knots. Most days, Yuri could barely muster the energy to pull it back into a messy braid or bun to hide under his hood. It wasn’t like he could see what he looked like, or cared enough to attempt any sort of style without the aid of a mirror.

The shower, turned up as hot as it could go, forced some life (hah) back into his limbs as the heat streamed over and through his body, chasing away thoughts of ice and darkness.

It dripped down his back, soaking into the collar of his shirt, and Yuri shuddered.

He was so tired.

The scissors sheared through his hair, the dulled blades catching occasionally and tugging at the strands. Handfuls were dumped unceremoniously in the trash, still clinging to the knots he hadn’t managed to unsnarl. Yuri ran his fingers across the ragged tufts poking up from the back of his head and through the uneven fringe that now barely brushed his cheekbone. It was undoubtedly a mess - he was mildly grateful that his lack of reflection spared him the sight – but the awful creeping wetness was off his neck, and the few tangles fell easily into order.

A few stray hairs were scattered across the sink.

Yuri wondered if it would grow back, if he’d resigned himself to a short-haired existence, and if he cared. It had been part of his image- no, _Yuri Plisetsky’s_ image, but why did he need an _image_ anymore? He idly inspected his fingernails. They were bitten past the quick, and he couldn’t remember if that had happened yesterday or last month.

Four eyebrows lifted when he stepped into the kitchen, but neither Chris nor Viktor commented on it.

“Felt like it,” Yuri mumbled as he opened the refrigerator door. It was close to empty; Viktor, in light of Yuri’s apparent success with hunting, had stopped buying more than a few liters each week from whoever it was that sold cartons of blood.

 _“Oh, don’t worry, we’ll keep some around for snacks,”_ Viktor had reassured Yuri. _“If you get hungry, just let me know- or you can probably manage by yourself now.”_

Yuri couldn’t, in fact, manage by himself, but nothing that he would call precisely ‘hunger’ had manifested yet, although he had begun to avoid humans almost religiously, nauseated by the scent of their blood, the shudder of heartbeats that his ears could pick up from many meters away.

“I can clean up the back for you,” offered Christophe, stretching his legs across the linoleum. “Don’t let Viktor touch it. After that disaster a few years ago, he’s not allowed to have scissors.”

“I was _experimenting,_ ” Viktor pouted. “It grew back just fine.”

 _It grew back._ Like everything else, relief was lukewarm and faded quickly.

“Okay.” Yuri slumped into an empty chair. “Thanks.”

Viktor rummaged through the drawers until he found a pair of scissors.

“I promised Ulrike I’d drop in tonight,” he said, handing them over to Chris. “Don’t burn down the house while I’m gone.”

That’s why Christophe was over, then. Viktor didn’t want him along, so someone else had to take babysitting duty. Yuri supposed he should mind, but it was better than staying at the house alone, half convinced that this was the time Viktor would decide not to come back.

The blades snipped away. Chris’s touch was light as he worked silently, without the snags and jerks that occurred during Yuri’s impulsive chopping. It was easy to be around Chris, without any of the tension that came from pretending not to be a pathetic asshole. Any good impressions Yuri could have made on him were years in the past, crushed into dust by their earlier interactions, but Yuri knew how to behave around people who didn’t like him – he could understand that.

What he couldn’t understand was _Viktor,_ his abrasive cheerfulness, his charity. He was the sort of person for whom the world fell to its knees, bowing to his whims. Someone who would never have trouble biting a geriatric squirrel. Viktor had probably chosen to become a vampire, swept himself into a glamorous life of dark mystique, picking up a stray here and there when he grew bored.

Yuri shifted in his seat.

“Why is Viktor… like this?”

Chris hummed softly in response. “You mean, why is he _Viktor,_ or a vampire?”

“A vampire.”

“He hasn’t told you?”

 _I wouldn’t be asking if he had,_ past-Yuri would have snapped. Undead-Yuri didn’t say anything. Christophe sighed.

“It wasn’t like your situation,” he said softly. “Viktor was on holiday, walking back to his hotel late at night. He was, well, attacked. Bitten. Never found out who, didn’t even meet another vampire for months.”

The silence continued with Yuri frozen in shock.

 _He was… murdered, then. On his own. I can’t even_ eat.

Chris seemed to sense his unease. “Some things were simpler for him, I think. No one knew what had happened - they mostly assumed he’d gotten bored and moved on. Contacting them again wasn’t… so much of a big deal.” Even Chris knew he couldn’t handle it, then. How long until Viktor realized? “You haven’t told anyone else?”

“No one to tell,” Yuri muttered. _No one who cares._

“Help me sweep this up?” Chris placed the scissors on the table and pulled a dustpan from under the sink. Yuri scraped the loose hairs into a heap. “Not even Otabek?”

“He made it pretty clear he didn’t want to hear from me,” said Yuri, unable to hide the crack in his voice. “So no.”

“Ah.” He ruffled Yuri’s hair as Yuri stood up, turning his face to hide the wash of tears that had begun to build. “I’m sorry. It might have been for the best, in the end.”

“I need a shower,” Yuri said, trying not to run out of the kitchen. His hair was still damp.

* * *

 

            “- Anyway, after I did that favor for Chris, I forgot about it. For us it’s no big deal, right? Whenever he asked what he could do to pay me back, I told him not to worry about it,” rambled Viktor, trying to fill the silence. He wasn’t sure if Yuri, who trailed along behind him, was listening or not. “But favors for fae are more like debts, and they _hate_ owing people. I got an erotic vampire novel of the month in the mail for two years before I figured out that it was Chris’s way of paying me back.”

            He glanced over his shoulder and was rewarded with a baleful gaze, one eyebrow arched by a fraction of a degree.

            “Of course I kept them. A few were actually quite good. The authors really did their best.” In fact, they had their own dedicated shelf in the library, which Viktor had caught Yuri staring at with a mixture of disgust and horrified fascination.

            The streets of Berlin were never truly deserted, especially on Friday nights. The Friedrichshain neighborhood, where Viktor had stopped in to welcome a new family, was about as quiet as it got. It had been a pleasant visit – Viktor spoke with the young couple, directing them to a few child-friendly social spots, pulling up a map of the city to scout out places the young girls could fly away from curious eyes. The children babbled in Turkish, staring at Yuri with huge dark eyes as they dragged him around the apartment, showing off their newly unpacked belongings. Eventually, after a soft word from their father, Yuri was allowed to settle into a corner of the couch, petting an ancient calico cat as the girls bickered, flexing their velvety, batlike wings in an attempt to see who could stretch farther.

            After saying their goodbyes (Viktor said goodbye, at least – Yuri scratched the cat under her chin, mostly ignoring her owners), they strolled through the nearby streets. Several blocks away, massive cement blocks of apartment buildings rose to the sky, their efficient, ordered facades a relic of the USSR that gave Viktor a flash of conflicted nostalgia. They turned into the Volkspark instead.

            “This is a beautiful spot in summer,” he told Yuri, looking at the few leaves still clinging to spindly branches. By the end of October, the park was rather dreary, but it was something to do – something that kept Yuri up and about for a couple minutes longer, instead of returning home where he’d drift back to the basement without a word. “Do you want to see a movie after this? There should be a few theaters open, since it’s the weekend.”

            “Okay.”

            They weren’t the only visitors, even in the witching hour. A young man jogged past, stopping a few meters away to lean on a bench and catch his breath. He unscrewed the cap of a water bottle and took a sip before clicking his tongue at the large, curly-coated brown dog, which cheerfully opened its mouth to accept a drink of its own.

            “Oh my gosh, Yuri, _look,_ ” gasped Viktor, before switching to German and addressing the jogger. “Do you mind if I say hi?”

            “Sure, go ahead. She loves people,” the man said, brushing his sweat-dark hair from his eyes. “We don’t see many folks out at this time of night, do we, girl?”

            “Oh, sweetie, you’re such a good dog,” Viktor cooed, ruffling the dog’s ears. “What a perfect ball of fluff, look at your _nose,_ what a good nose, and those ears! You should be a model, pup. Are you a model? You’re _not?_ I don’t believe you. Yuri, maybe we should get a dog. What do you think? When I was a teenager, I wanted to move to Switzerland and adopt a poodle and name him Makkachin.”

            Yuri didn’t pet the dog, which was perhaps taking his self-professed stance as a cat person a _little_ far, in Viktor’s opinion. Instead, his eyes were fixed on the stranger, narrowing them slightly and tipping his head when the man laughed as Viktor’s face was thoroughly licked.

            He should have seen it coming, he thought later, should have recognized the leaden slowness that had weighted Yuri’s limbs more with each passing day, been wary of the flicker of sudden interest after so many weeks of apathy.

            If life were a movie, the moment would have been played in slow motion, but it seemed to be in fast-forward instead, skipping jerkily through the frames as Yuri’s teeth punched through soft skin, filling the air with the thick iron tang of blood. Instinct snapped his muscles into action, and within a split second he was locking his arms around Yuri, pulling him away. The man blinked, dazedly lifting one hand to his neck and peering at the smears of red across his fingers. Yuri struggled, whimpering softly as he tried to fight his way out of Viktor’s grip.

            _He doesn’t know what’s happening._ Viktor hadn’t told Yuri, hadn’t wanted to push his fragile state past the brink by telling him he could turn into a monster, a killer. It shouldn’t have been a problem, unless he was starving.

            Viktor suddenly wondered if it had been like this for the vampire who had bitten him all those decades ago, nothing more or less than an accident. They might have been young, scared, ignorant; maybe they hadn’t come back for him because they hadn’t made it past the next dawn.

            “Did he just-“

            “A branch fell on you,” exclaimed Viktor, thinking as quickly as he could while trying to restrain the writhing vampire in his arms without making a scene. _He shouldn’t be hungry, not like this, he went hunting just a few hours ago._ _He shouldn’t be losing control._ “Oh my god, are you okay?”

            “A branch,” he said, frowning in puzzlement. “I didn’t see a-“

            “Happened very fast, no wonder it got you,” Viktor replied, cutting him off. “Oh, dear, you’re bleeding, must have gotten scraped- how’s your head? Why don't you call a cab to get home?”

            “I’ll… do that.”

            “Would absolutely wait with you, but we’ve got to get home, early day tomorrow and all that.” Yuri had stopped trying to break away. His body had begun to go limp and shake violently. “That’s it, Yura, hold on a little more, you’ve got this,” Viktor murmured in Russian. “Focus, stay with me, you can do it.”

            “Um, thanks.”

            “Nice meeting you, love your dog, bye!”

            Viktor ran for the car, half-carrying, half-dragging Yuri.

            At least they hadn’t taken the bus.

* * *

“Drink this,” insisted Viktor, pushing a cup into Yuri’s hands. “All of it.”

The contents were cold. Yuri drank.

 _I attacked him. I_ bit _him,_ he thought numbly. _That’s it then._

“What happened back there?” Viktor poured out another mug, taking a minute to microwave it before setting it in front of Yuri. “You’ve been eating, it shouldn’t have…”

Yuri snorted bitterly. Some of the leaden exhaustion was fading from his body as he drank.

_You fucked up, Plisetsky. There’s no hiding it now. You failed. Should have given up from the start, not put everyone through the trouble._

As if nearly tearing out someone’s throat was merely an inconvenience. He pulled himself to his feet.

“Right, you go rest,” Viktor said, running his fingers through his silvery hair, which had been tugged into an unruly cloud already. “I need to- to handle things.”

Zoyenka tried to follow Yuri into the basement. He gently nudged her away with his foot, closing the door before she could slip in, and gritted his teeth as she mewled her protests. _It’s not safe for you, baby. I’m not safe._

Yuri’s eyes burned as he took out his phone, fingers trembling, forcing him to stop and rewrite the text to Christophe three separate times.

 

 **YP:** i need you to take my cat. please. i can’t take care of her.

 **YP:** she likes you. she’ll be happy.

 

            How long did he have? Yuri wouldn’t beg, refused to fall to that level once more. It had never worked in the past, so he might as well save himself the trouble and leave with whatever dignity remained, the semblance of choice.

            He threw things into his backpack almost at random. A change of clothes, his phone charger, his headphones. It didn’t matter anyway. Yuri bit his lip before adding a small toy cat, its plush black and white fur almost a carbon copy of Zoyenka’s, tucking it safely into the side pocket.

            His phone stayed silent. It would be easier for both of them if he left before Viktor threw him out, but he couldn’t – not until he knew Zoyenka would be okay. Yuri dropped onto the bed curling into a ball, and wrapped his hands around the back of his neck. His hair was already a little longer, enough to twine around his fingers. It was so cold outside. He wished this had happened in summer. Yuri had always hated summer, the heat that made him melt into a soggy pink puddle, but _after_ he wished the thermometer would creep ever higher. The warmth would have given him one less thing to deal with, to fight against.

            The basement door swung open, one hinge whining softly where a speck of rust had evaded every drop of oil, and light footsteps echoed down the staircase. Yuri rolled over, facing the wall. Maybe if he pretended to sleep, Viktor would give him a few more minutes.

            Viktor sat down on the edge of the mattress. A moment later, Zoyenka nudged Yuri’s elbow with her nose, chirping and purring – _pet me,_ she was saying. Her insistence had always made him giggle, giving in after mere seconds. He stayed still, squeezing his eyes shut more tightly. She clambered onto his hip, kneading at his leg, the soft pinpricks of her claws catching the fabric of his jeans but never piercing skin.

            Yuri gave up on the act and pushed her off, sitting up.

            “I’ll be out of your hair soon,” he choked out, not meeting the icy blue gaze. “Just let me find someone to take Zoye first. Please. Then I’ll go.”

            “You’ll- Yuri, what are you talking about?” Viktor glanced around the room, his eyes halting on the half-zipped backpack. “Where would you… you can’t go out by yourself, not like that.”

            “The fuck do you think?” Yuri turned the sob in his throat into an acrid laugh. He’d been stupid again. Viktor wouldn’t toss him out and risk him eating the first human who walked by. “I guess you want to take care of things yourself.”

            Viktor’s mouth hung open slightly, and Yuri forced the words out before they could die on his tongue. Zoyenka was still trying to clamber into his lap. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets.

            “We both know this was a mistake. You did your best, I couldn’t handle it, I’ve made that pretty fucking clear. I can’t even _eat,_ unless it’s attacking a random guy who’s just trying to walk his dog. Maybe I would have gone for his dog, too.” Yuri looked up at the ceiling, hoping gravity would reverse the flow of tears that pricked at his eyes. “You don’t even have to feel guilty, it’s my own damn fault, you should have known it from the moment I screwed up and got myself killed.”

            “You couldn’t eat?” Viktor blinked slowly. “But, the hunting, you were doing so well-“

            “I couldn’t do it.” Yuri closed his eyes. “I let them go as soon as you left.”

            “God, Yura, I’m so sorry,” said Viktor, his voice strained. “I-“

            “Just let me pretend I have a choice here, okay?” For the first time in months, Yuri was almost shouting, the anger and frustration raising their drowsy heads, swirling sickeningly. It was easier when he couldn’t see the regret in Viktor’s eyes.

            “This was _my_ fault, not yours,” whispered Viktor, and Yuri jumped as he was pulled into a hug - unlike the near-chokehold of earlier, he could have pushed Viktor away, but… tears were trickling down his face, another of his body’s betrayals. “It’s okay that you don’t like hunting, I should have noticed, I should have told you what happens if you don’t eat enough. I thought- I thought it would be easier for you. I knew it, all this, was hard for you, I didn’t want you to feel like a monster. Someone’s already driving over with more blood. We can just- you don’t have to try to hunt more.”

            “I could have hurt Zoyenka,” said Yuri, his voice cracking into Viktor’s shoulder. “I was around people in the city. We were with _kids_ today. I could- I could have attacked Grandpa. I… Chris told me what happened to you. I fucked up. I can’t do it. You don’t have to try anymore. I know you don’t want me around.”

            “Yuri, please, listen to me.” Zoyenka nudged Yuri’s hand, which lay limp against the sheets. He gave up and scratched her chin gently. “I don't know what I’m doing. I never thought I’d turn someone, I wasn’t prepared, but… I haven’t regretted it, not for a second. And maybe it’s selfish of me because I know you’re not happy, I know you don’t trust or even like me, but I like having you here. This house- I used to hate it, did you know that? Except for the library, it was just somewhere to go during the day, to keep my clothes. It was too big and too empty.

            “You said we’ll never be family, and I- I respect that. My family… they weren’t great. I thought I never wanted another one, didn’t need them.” Viktor sighed heavily, weighing his words as Yuri listened, waiting for the other shoe to drop. _When are you going to tell me to leave anyway?_ “Now you’re here, and even if I barely knew you- Yuri, I care about you so much. I'm sorry I haven’t been listening to you, I haven’t been paying enough attention. I want you to be happy, and safe, and even if you don’t feel the same way- you’re _my_ family now.”

            “You’re- you’re not throwing me out,” whispered Yuri. “Even though I…”

            “ _Never,_ ” said Viktor, leaning back to meet Yuri’s eyes. “No matter what. I promise. I- I assume Chris told you I was on my own for a long time. I almost didn’t make it. I would never abandon you.”

            Viktor’s phone buzzed. Yuri realized it had been vibrating nearly constantly for the past several minutes.

            “I should text Chris,” Yuri mumbled. “And tell him… tell him he can’t have Zoyenka after all.”

            “You asked Chris?” Viktor’s eyes were almost comically wide as he reached for his own phone.

            “I knew he wouldn’t- wouldn’t argue,” said Yuri, hiccupping once. “He doesn’t like me very much. But he likes Zoye.”

            “Shit,” muttered Viktor as the screen flickered to life, typing rapidly before handing the device over. “Yuri, look.”

            Yuri glanced down.

 

 **CG:** why is yuri asking me to take his cat??

 **CG:** viktor what’s going on

 **CG:** your idiot kid is going to do something stupid

 **CG:** what the fuck is happening

 **CG:** if yuri is trying to give me his cat something is wrong and if you don’t go fix this right now because you’re busy combing your hair i will never forgive you because now i’m fond of the damn brat and GODDAMMIT ANSWER ME RIGHT NOW VIKTOR

 **CG:** i’m coming over

 **VN:** It’s okay, he’s safe. It’s under control. Talk later.

 

            As he read, a new message popped up.

 

 **CG:** way to give me a damn heart attack nikiforov

 **CG:** call if i can help

 

            “He cares about you too,” Viktor said quietly. “I’ll do better now. I promise. We’ll get you through this.”

            “People always leave.” Yuri lifted Zoyenka to his chest. She trilled happily.

            “Not this time, Yuri,” Viktor told him, his arm still around Yuri’s shoulders. “I don’t know who left you, but they were wrong, okay? No one’s going anywhere.”

* * *

          The tarnished hotel mirror was wrong, a voice in the back of Otabek’s mind insisted. His hair couldn’t be that long, the circles under his eyes so deep. He rinsed the last traces of shaving cream from his face, tossing the now-dull razor into the trash, on top of the ragged remnants of his old shirt. He’d closed his eyes as he unzipped his jacket, stripped off what was left of the bloodstained fabric and stepped into the shower, not opening them again until he’d dressed in the clean clothes purchased with the prepaid debit card that had, somehow, remained in the inner pocket of his coat since July.

            A bus ticket lay beside the sink, its ink faded from countless touches as Otabek checked and rechecked the date.

            Another bout of coughing tore through his raw lungs. He tossed the tissue on top of the discarded shirt and razor and rinsed the thick taste of old blood from his mouth. His body had healed too fast, sealing the injury quickly but not cleanly. It shouldn’t have been able to heal at all.

_15 December, från Malmö till Stockholm._

            Four and a half months since he’d left Almaty.

            Two days since he’d dragged himself back to a consciousness that shouldn’t have come, waking curled against an outcropping of jagged rocks on an unfamiliar shore.

Sixteen hours since he’d stumbled into town, glancing over his shoulder, every instinct telling him to get as far away as possible, his chest tight and aching.

The phone, like everything else in the room, was old. The plastic casing was stained from too many hands, too many words, and the cord was rubbed bare where it connected to the base, wires peeking from behind the cracking cover.

“Сәлеметсіз бе?” His mother’s voice was tired, as worn as the ancient phone Otabek clutched. He forced himself to breathe in.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered hoarsely. Almost five months. “I didn’t mean to- I didn’t-“

“Beka?” Her gasp was barely audible, interrupted by a babble of conversation as she called for his father. “Beka, is that you?”

“It’s me.” He lay down on the sagging mattress, counting smears of dust on the yellowed ceiling. Hot tears streaked down his face. “I’m sorry.”

“Beka, oh god,” his mother stammered, her words hitching and catching. “ _Aйналайын,_ where are you? Are you safe? Please come home.”

“I’m okay.” The weight on his ribs bore down harder, driving his breath into the scratchy duvet. He gasped for air, saltwater on his lips. “I’m- I’m in a hotel. Stockholm. Mom, I- my stuff is gone, I rented a locker but it’s not- it’s not there anymore, I don’t have my passports, I-”

Otabek was crying in earnest, fighting the sobs that clenched his throat in an iron grip. _I’m sorry,_ he tried to say once more. _I’m so sorry._

“Beka, your mother is coming to get you,” his father said, his accent thickened with emotion. “We have your passports, it’s okay, we’re going to get you home. Where is the hotel?”

He wiped at his eyes until he could read the address printed on the hotel’s torn notepad, stumbling over the unfamiliar Swedish syllables.

“We’re booking a flight now, _ботам,_ just stay there, stay in your room,” his dad urged. “She’ll be there soon. We love you so much, we thought-“

The walls were falling in around Otabek, crushing him under plaster and regret.

“I’ll stay here, I n-need to,” he faltered. “I’ll call you back in a minute, I promise, I need- I love you.”

The loss of his parents’ voices was an immediate ache, the reality of the weeks and months hitting him with the wave of silence.

_It could have been years._

The thought registered slowly. The wolf didn’t understand the passage of time, not the way _he_ did, not the way his family must have felt as autumn slipped by without a word.

_I might have never come back._

It had been so easy to slip away, dull the pain and fear and loss as he gave up his body, his mind, himself. Otabek’s skin burned as he gingerly traced the gnarled ridges of the scar knitted across his body, spun into knots from collarbone to hip.

If he had died, his parents would have never known what happened, would have spent countless days listening for a knock on the door, a phone call that would never come. Maybe someone would have found him eventually – his heart stumbled in its rhythm, doubting what would have been left to find – and given them a half-answer, an ending… or maybe not.

They _had_ thought he was dead.

But Otabek was still alive, still breathing, going _home._ She – _it –_ had dragged him into darkness, his world going black as claws ripped into him, consciousness receding before the quakes of pain as he fought for breath around the welling wetness in his chest.

If he’d fought for more than air, forced his failing body to flee, destroyed – he couldn’t bring himself to think _kill_ any more than he could picture doing it, and she was already dead, he’d known it from the moment he touched her ice-slick wrist – then he couldn’t remember, had nothing more than the fresh scars crosshatching his form to put the pieces together.

The bus from Malmö had driven for hours, kilometers sleeting past as it traveled north. _It,_ if it still existed, had enough of a mind left to hunt, couldn't have followed. It had forgotten about him, surely, possibly distracted by more interesting prey. Nausea rolled through Otabek as a blurred picture of the woman’s companion rose before his eyes. He should have looked for him, told him to run, to get away, apologized for his failure to save her, or at least carried an answer away from the ocean, one less family looking over their shoulders.

Instead, Otabek had run, as he always ran.

The wolf wanted to keep going. It didn’t understand that he’d gone far enough, it _had_ to be far enough, that if he didn’t want to be alone, didn’t want to hurt his mother and father and sisters more than he already had, it was time to _stay._ To wait.

The wolf, he decided, was an idiot.

He picked up the phone again with shaking hands, dialing the numbers twice more with fumbling fingers and blurring vision, listened as his father read off the flight itinerary. Otabek counted down the hours in his head. Five months. A day and a half until his mother landed in Stockholm-Arlanda. Her cell phone wouldn’t work once she left Kazakhstan, his father reminded him. She would call from the airport.

Otabek didn’t try to sleep, but the nightmares found him anyway. They crept into the corners of the room to build their nests, swiping at his heels as he paced. Every sound turned into the _shush-crash_ of saltwater waves, the creak of a door, heavy footsteps dragging along the blacktop.

The hotel room was a prison and a sanctuary.

He washed his clothes in the sink and draped them over the towel rack to dry, watching specks of rust melt into the fabric.

His sisters called; Aisulu first, and Zhibek some hours later, hoarse and wavering.

He thought about Yuri.

That wound was still fresh, jagged, its edges something even the wolf in him couldn’t heal. The lost time hadn’t touched it either. Six months. Yuri had been gone for six months. It felt like yesterday. Otabek thought it would always feel like yesterday, like five minutes ago, like a sharp and biting _now._

He wondered if Yuri had fought it too, willed himself to keep going just as Otabek had, pressed against the rocks ( _the ice),_ told himself to keep breathing, to hold on.

Yuri Plisetsky had the eyes of a soldier, the heart of a soldier. He’d never found a battle he hadn’t fought – until _then,_ never fought a battle he hadn’t won.

Otabek found himself hoping that Yuri had, for the first and last time, decided not to fight. That it had been over before it had begun, existence and then _not._ That it had been easy, if dying could ever be easy.

_I should have been there. If I couldn’t have stopped him, he at least wouldn’t have been alone._

The scar across Otabek’s chest was tight, pulling him inwards, collapsing into himself.

A knock rattled the door, hesitant, fearful.

“ _Aйналайын,”_ his mother whispered, looking up at him. “Oh, Beka.”

He felt small in her arms. Otabek let the fear and pain pour through his mind, accepting it. He didn’t have to run anymore.

Her silver earrings blistered him where they brushed against his neck, prickles and sparks burning his skin. He let her hug him tighter.

He wanted to go home.


	27. Beginnings and Endings, Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final part of this chapter. We'll be back to the main story next update. 
> 
> **Content warnings:** same as the first two parts. That's just how I roll.

“He’s here. I’ve got him. He’s… no, I don’t know what happened. He’s sleeping now.” His mother’s voice wrapped around him, feather-soft, as she murmured into the phone. The days – months – of exhaustion tugged at him with heavy hands when the hotel door opened. He didn’t have to stay awake anymore, to listen and watch and wait, to make sure his heart was still beating as if it would stutter and pause if no one was watching. His mother sat on the bed next to him, stroking his hair as she spoke. Otabek’s body felt empty, hollow. “We’ll leave for the airport soon. I need to ask if- yes, I’ll let you know if we need to change flights. Zhibek’s home already? Tell her we’ll be back soon. Love you.”

The phone’s static buzz was cut off with a muted click as she hooked it back on the base. Otabek opened his eyes with a sigh. The room was too hot after months of the biting chill of Swedish nights. It ran damp, clinging fingers across his skin.

“Hey, _ботам_ ,” she said, the warmth in her reddened eyes a balm against the air’s clammy heat. “It’s almost time to go.”

He nodded.

“Is there- do you need to do anything before we leave? The… the police, or- anything.” She brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. “Sweetie, you have a fever. How do you feel?”

The wolf was betraying him again, Otabek realized. Months before, when he thought there was a chance everything could be okay again, curiosity had driven him to take his temperature, plunging him into icy shock when the thermometer’s readout was two full degrees higher than expected, the numbers refusing to drop no matter how long he stared.

“Too many blankets. I'm not sick.” His throat was rough and dry, unused to speech. “I don’t need to talk to anyone here.”

She didn’t look convinced.

 _What happened to you,_ her eyes asked. _Beka, where were you?_

He wished he could answer.

* * *

 

“I knew you were okay, _ағай_ ,” Zhibek murmured, standing on her toes to kiss Otabek’s cheek. “You’re too stubborn for anything else.”

He was backpacking, he’d told them. He got lost. Twin frowns had creased his parents’ faces, another set of worries that hadn’t been there before he left. Aisulu looked away. Her husband placing a gentle hand on her hip – whether it was due to Otabek’s absence and sudden return, or the twins that would be born in less than a month, the two were more inseparable than at their wedding. They said nothing.

Only Zhibek seemed to believe his story.

The guilty ache in Otabek’s chest wished she didn’t.

The corners of their apartment was faded around the edges, sanded like seaglass by the flow of memories. Some were soothing, nostalgic – photos of Aisulu’s wedding, family vacations to Astana, a short poem Zhibek had written at age five that remained pinned to the refrigerator, the paper crinkled and soft. The same tributes to the past bit into the present with needle-sharp teeth, sinking infection into the bone. Behind Aisulu, resplendent in her bridal finery, was the corner of Yuri’s smile, his low whisper in Otabek’s ear pinned like a butterfly to a board, silent and still behind the glass.

The first argument came three days later.

“Only for a night,” Otabek said, forcing his voice into a steady line. “It’s… important to me.”

Outside, the moon yawned. Only a sliver of darkness was carved into its silvery surface.

“Your father and I don’t think it’s a good idea, Beka,” his mother said gently. Her words wrapped around him like invisible vines, manacles chaining his wrist to the pain engraved in the set of her lips. “Not alone.”

He didn’t think it was a good idea either. After all, Otabek _wouldn’t_ be alone: the wolf was lifting its shaggy head, sniffing the moonlight. He didn’t trust it not to take over, didn’t trust himself not to give it control.

“I’ll call you,” he promised them, promised himself. “I’ll be back the next day.”

Would they understand, if he told them? _Could_ they? Not without a demonstration, Otabek suspected, and even then… He’d managed to change intentionally only once, and even from the inside, it wasn’t a pretty spectacle. Even then, without the lock of the moon, he couldn’t turn back to whatever passed for human immediately. Otabek’s experiment with transformations had ended with him reaching for his other form, _pulling,_ feeling his body shift and stretch – and waking up several hours later, cold weariness beaten into his skin as the borders of his endurance were trampled.

 _It would only make things worse,_ he told himself. _And besides, if the wolf-_

It recoiled at the thought of hurting them, betrayal making his fingers clench into fists. _Family,_ it insisted. _My family._

 _Not yours,_ Otabek growled. The wolf had taken everything else. It couldn’t have this too.

The fight in his mind was a cold war, a battle of will with no blood shed between them - no, the casualties fell around him, puppet armies and proxies. He wondered if the woman had felt the same as the thing, the parasite, crept into her mind, if it had taken over her body or her thoughts first. If something had remained, holding _it_ back, letting him escape, a last act of humanity.

* * *

          Yuri crept into the library.

            _Crept;_ it was a word that, even five months ago, Viktor would never have thought to apply to Yuri. Not the elfin thirteen year old who was already trying to carve a place for himself with only his anger and his skates, nor the brash fifteen year old whose words had been honed into daggers, his edges made of razors and ice. But the explosive teenager who had greeted his new life with a sneer and a thrown punch had faded quietly into the shadows, before Viktor’s eyes and out of his sight.

            And so now Yuri crept, drifted, slipped into the background, so unobtrusive that it sometimes seemed like the boy hadn’t noticed his own presence, wearing the unsuited silence like leaden chains.

            “Hey, Yuri,” Viktor murmured as Yuri perched on the edge of an armchair, only letting his weight sink into the worn cushion and drawing his knees to his chest after the soft greeting fluttered through the still air. “What’s up?”

            It wasn’t that he expected an answer that came, on the best days, in the form of a slow blink of acknowledgement or a muttered _we need more cat food._ It was enough for him to curl up in the chair, sometimes listening to music, sometimes content with Zoyenka’s steady purr and Viktor’s comments about the news, the weather, or the latest happenings in Berlin as he worked.

            Today, he thought, might be a bad day, one of the nights that were now mercifully less frequent but regular nonetheless, when Yuri sat hunched and wordless, fighting to stay afloat in his own mind. Then -

            “Did I know what was happening?” His voice didn’t tremble so much as it flickered, hovering just barely on the edge of existence.

            Viktor bit down on the automatic _what_ and _when,_ as much as he wished he could feign ignorance, forget Yakov’s gruff warning of _he’ll need to hear it from you, eventually._ The boy who looked at his scores, unflinching, when other skaters turned their heads with apprehension, who poked and prodded every injury until he understood, who grasped at every thread because even when knowledge wasn’t power, it could feel an awful lot like control.

            The laptop closed with a soft click as Viktor straightened his shoulders, forcing open memories he’d done his best to lock away, of Yuri falling to the ice with blank eyes and an unyielding finality.

            “No,” he replied slowly. “I don’t think you were conscious.”

 _Please let this be it,_ he pleaded, but he wasn’t the man who could turn away for his own peace of mind, especially not as an iota of tension melted from Yuri’s face.

            “It didn’t hurt,” said Yuri, turning the words over on his tongue, flavored with something like relief, something like acceptance.

            “If you felt anything, it was only for a second,” Viktor reassured him, reassured both of them, hating the thread of uncertainty held in the moment after impact, forgotten but not lost.

            Yuri was silent for a long minute, and Viktor tried not to picture the demons he was laying to rest as his green eyes flicked from Viktor’s face and down to the carpet.

            “Did you…” The whisper fell and rose again, nothing more than a breath, as Yuri wound his fingers into the hair that covered the nape of his neck, chin length once more. “Did you stay? W-with me. Until. Until I.”

            “Yes, Yura,” he said gently, remembering the ice against his legs as he’d knelt for what felt like an eternity, holding Yuri’s hand, the urge to give comfort lingering long after the last of his desperate gasps for breath had slipped away into the cold air. His own litany of _let this work, please, let this work,_ the rhythm almost filling the soundless void between slowing heartbeats, until there was no longer a _between_ but an _after._ He had to tear himself away, walk out before leaving became impossible. He couldn’t look back to where Yuri lay broken on the rink, crystals beginning to form in patches of his reddened hair as the ice claimed its sacrifice. “I stayed with you. You weren’t alone.”

“Okay,” Yuri breathed. “Okay.”

Was it selfish to hope that the conversation was over, he asked himself, to wish that he didn’t have to remember what Yuri couldn’t? Past-Viktor would have said no, would have made an excuse and slipped away to distraction, would have forgotten.

 _Maybe you should call that therapist too, Vitya._ He’d been worried at first, watching Yuri emerge from the office more drawn and listless than he’d walked in, but Chris had told him to wait, to ask Yuri what he wanted. Yuri had simply shrugged on his jacket before the next appointment, opened the car door without a word.

 _There’s the fighter,_ Viktor knew then. _He’s still in there._

“What was I doing?” Yuri’s eyes were diamond, hard, brittle as they sought Viktor’s gaze. “You said I jumped. What was it?”

“Are you sure…” Viktor faltered.

“I’m asking, right?” The ghost of a scowl twitched through his face, bright on his pale cheeks. “It was that damn quad flip.”

“Uh, Yuri, I-“ It would be simple to say he couldn’t remember, he hadn’t seen clearly, but Viktor had promised to tell Yuri everything. It was easy to try to protect him, lie through omission, avoid the difficult topics and put off hard conversations for another time. It wasn’t so effortless to pick up the pieces afterwards, the shards scattered, picking up speed for months instead of minutes before they hit the ground. “It wasn’t the quad flip. It- it looked like you were going for a combination.”

“Oh, _shit._ ” Yuri’s mouth hung open slightly, a visual definition of horror. “The-“

“Triple toe loop,” Viktor confirmed, wincing.

“A fucking- god _damn_ it.” His eyes blazed. “No one _ever_ finds out about this, got it?”

“I- of course not.” Maybe this time it was okay not to remind Yuri about the security cameras, which were incapable of picking up technically-trespassing vampires but had no such trouble with regards to exhausted teenagers. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“You’d better not.” Yuri sank back into the armchair, his feverish energy trickling away into the floor. He blinked once, twice, before looking up again. “Can… can we go to the rink?”

 _The rink._ The sole place Yuri had refused to follow, in his quiet fog, the acrid bite to his voice whipping across Viktor’s cheek the first (and only) time he’d hesitantly suggested it to Yuri, desperate to coax him out of the basement for even a few moments.

“You want to-” Yuri’s skates were hidden in the back of Viktor’s closet, carefully wrapped and buried. “Um, sure. I’ll get changed.”

 

Watching Yuri step onto the ice was like watching him go home, half a year later, with everything and nothing changed. Viktor watched as his skates bit down, something like joy, something like relief shining in the sparkling flakes thrown up by the blades, as Yuri threw himself into the air. Triple toe loop, double toe loop, triple Salchow, repeat, over and over again. Eventually he abandoned the last two elements, whirling across the room, skates flashing in the low light. _Triple toe. Triple toe. Triple toe._

Yuri didn’t smile when he finally stepped off the ice, but the fragile diamond glitter in his eyes had been transmuted to sun-warmed steel.

* * *

“When are you going back to school?”

Zhibek shrugged at Otabek’s question. She hadn’t talked much about her first semester at University of the Arts in London, its photojournalism program her dream since age fifteen. Aisulu, who had been sprawled across the couch complaining about the relentless aches in her feet and back, looked away. Otabek thought she spent more time looking away from him than looking _at_ him, these days.

“Not before Aika has her kids,” Zhibek said, fiddling with her phone. “Gotta see the little beans first, right? Besides, I want to feel the sweet release from parental expectations.”

Aisulu snorted, while Otabek nodded his agreement. The younger siblings had shown no inclinations towards children of their own, to their parents’ disappointment. The memory of his mother picking up a tiny onesie, looking a panic-stricken seventeen-year-old Otabek in the eyes as she sighed _‘grandchildren,_ ’ had haunted his dreams for months afterward.

“Taking one for the team, _апай_ ,” teased Zhibek, as if their older sister hadn’t started knitting thumb-sized socks the night she’d gotten engaged, balls of yarn spooling across her stacks of engineering textbooks.

“ _Cіңлім,_ can you grab my heating pad?” Aisulu’s puppy eyes weren’t strictly necessary, but Zhibek groaned and grumbled as she climbed to her feet. “I think it’s by my bed.”

“I have to go all the way to your apartment? Ugh,” she whined. “Why don’t you buy another one? You’re here half the time anyway.”

“I live in the next building, it’s not that far,” replied Aisulu. “And, since you’re going out…”

“Buarsak?”

“Please.”

“As you command, O Swollen One,” agreed Zhibek, digging her hat from the pile of winter coats and disappearing through the door. Otabek heard her footsteps echoing through the stairway – she refused to use the elevator in all but extreme circumstances, insisting that it had ‘bad vibes.’

“You _do_ have one here. It’s under the medicine cabinet.”

            Aisulu hummed an affirmation. “Yes, I do.”

            “Then why-“ Otabek lifted an eyebrow towards the door.

            “Zhibek’s not going back to London,” Aisulu said, toying with the seams of the sofa cushions. “Not this semester, at least.”

            “What?” He shook his head. He must have heard her wrong, because- “She’s wanted this for years, why would…”

            “She wants to be closer to you, Beka. Zhibek’s scared.” She sighed. “And… she can’t, anyway. She failed her classes. Came home before her exams, when we got your call, not that it would have made a difference either way.”

            “Zhibek said she wasn’t worried,” he whispered, numb. “She- because of me.”

            Her dream school, her dream course. He’d fucked it up, hadn’t even known, hadn’t thought.

            “And you believed her, _інім_?”

            “I- we can explain. They’ll clear her transcript, they have to,” Otabek told his sister, told himself. “I’m fine. She can’t miss this because of me.”

            Aisulu sat up straight. She wasn’t glaring at him, but her eyes burned with a cold fire.

            “You’re _not_ fine, Beka. Do you think we haven’t noticed?” She started to put a hand on his knee, pulled her fingers back as he flinched. “You won’t talk to us, you won’t talk to a doctor, and you look… so tired.”

            Otabek couldn’t argue, couldn’t protest. His days were spent dodging his mother’s worried touches, checking for the fever he’d tried to explain away back at the hotel, skirting around and avoiding and flat out refusing to see a doctor, who would know something was wrong with him the moment they timed his pulse, something that couldn’t ever be fixed. He’d heard his parents’ whispers, late at night, his heightened hearing unable to block out their words – _kidnapping,_ they’d asked each other. _Drugs?_

            And he was tired. His blood felt sluggish, struggling through his veins, a weariness embedded in him down to each cell of muscle and nerve. Otabek avoided looking in mirrors, not wanting to see the troubled emptiness in his eyes, the hollows and shadows.

            “We just want to help you, Beka, please.”

            _You can’t. I’m sorry._

            “You shouldn’t worry about me,” he told Aisulu, picking at a loose thread in the knee of his jeans. “Just take care of yourself, the kids.”

            Zhibek burst through the door a moment later and kicked her shoes into the corner.

            “Buarsak, heating pad, kumiss,” she announced. “Because _someone,_ not naming names but he knows who he is, finished it and then put the bottle back in the fridge.”

            Otabek plugged in the electric hot pad and handed it to Aisulu while Zhibek carried the shopping back into the kitchen.

            “She’s always looked up to you, Beka,” murmured Aisulu. “Show her that you’re not giving up. Let us help. Tell us what you need, please.”

 

            He lay in bed that night, unable to sleep, watching the snow outside his window dance and blur.

            _I can’t stop hurting them,_ Otabek thought. When he tried to hide, they worried, would never grow used to his monthly absences. How long until they noticed a pattern, and even then, would they begin to mark the full moon on their calendars? Otabek already felt smothered by their concern, chained within the walls of their apartment, trapped by their concerned glances.

            He had to learn more, couldn’t disappear every month, unsure of whether he’d remember to turn back. A shudder crept down Otabek’s spine as he thought about his previous quest for information, ending each night with no answers but an ever-growing web of scars. The only help he’d received, in the end, was a soft _I’m sorry_ from the sad-eyed boy – Sergei, that was his name – mere hours before the world had shifted on its axis.

            They wouldn’t help. They were dangerous, capricious, unforgiving; his own safety he could risk, but if interest was sparked, it would lead back to his family.

            _Werewolf,_ he typed into the search engine, starting in Russian but deleting it and switching to English. A werewolf, like in an American movie, not the _bodark_ or _wawkalak_. It seemed to fit.

            Wikipedia. A website dedicated to sightings of cryptids and mythological creatures. Enraged forum posts about unfair treatment towards a Harry Potter character. Even more baffling, rules for a party game.

            Silver, full moon, some plant that was apparently poisonous to werewolves, although – he clicked through – it was apparently incredibly poisonous in general, so that didn’t mean much. He closed the tab with a huff of frustration after clicking on a yahoo answers post.

 _hw do i turn nto a werewof,_ they wrote. _my bff says shes a vamp now and im not allowed to hagn out wit her ne more._

            Otabek rubbed his eyes. What had he been expecting, anyway, a how-to guide? _So You’re A Werewolf,_ by Dr. Canis. _Free online seminar, sign up now._ A support group.

            An idea struck him. There was always another way, he thought. He didn’t even _know_ he was a werewolf, if werewolves were real.

            He did know he was a wolf, could feel it with a cold core of certainty.

            _Wolf,_ he typed. A rush of familiarity trickled through his mind. It was _right._ The size was too small, but it would make sense if his weight stayed the same. Built for cold climates, long distances. Otabek kept reading. He had a base, the start of an answer, a flash of hope. Wolves. People knew about wolves, understood them. The creature sharing his body didn’t have to be an unpredictable mystery.

            _\- vary dramatically, with an average of between six and eight years, although wolves in captivity frequently live to fifteen years or longer._

The words leapt from the screen, chewing into his fingers like acid. The scar across his chest burned, lungs filling with hot blood and saltwater as he read it again.

            _Six to eight years. Fifteen._

            Otabek fought for a flicker of disbelief, anything that would let him dismiss the clinical text. He wasn’t a wolf, not completely. He healed. Aging was damage, wasn’t it? It should…

            He stumbled to the bathroom, staring into the mirror at the pallor under his tan skin, the sharp angles of exhaustion. His body felt heavy, worn-down, used up. Otabek tried to imagine soft lines of age traced through his skin, threads of grey streaked through his black hair. His undercut was completely grown out, the thick locks falling almost to his shoulders. The man in the mirror stayed young, haunted, scared.

            Otabek wondered if it was more like a battery burning within him, healing and pushing and carrying him past human limits, energy spent and gone. How much had it used each time he transformed, remolded his body? More than it took to seal the cuts and bruises he’d collected, more than he’d needed to mend the shattered ribs and gaping wound _it_ had left him with?

            _I don’t know,_ he told himself. _I don’t know anything. It could be fine._

            Would it matter?

            His existence balanced on a precipice, hanging between casual fights in the bars he’d frequented on his search for someone like him, swept into the ocean of Malmö. Six to eight years suddenly seemed like an eternity. After all, he’d barely made it nine months. Fate had no sympathy for golden boys. Why should she care for stray dogs?

 

            Aisulu’s children came home, glowing under the coos of their parents, grandparents, and aunt. Otabek smiled. _They’re a family without me,_ he thought. _It’ll be okay. They’ll be okay._

            A couple of days later he spent the day on four legs, not noticing the mid-January chill, unable to forget the redness ringing Zhibek’s eyes when he came back the next night. How many more times would he be able to come back, and would they ever stop worrying that he wouldn’t?

            Zhibek didn’t go back to London. His parents fretted, pushing harder, begging him for answers. It hurt them to be near him, he could tell, unable to escape the constant fear every time Otabek left the apartment, left the room.

            If they found out, would they ask him to leave? They’d want him to go to the hospital, get treatment, if he told them – something he’d have to fight, or run, or be discovered. If they knew… Aisulu would fear for her kids. His parents would mourn theirs.

            They would start to resent him soon, the pain and anxiety he brought, the lies that he forced between his teeth.

            He couldn’t stay.

            If he wanted to keep them, keep this last remnant of his old life away from the wolf’s jaws, he- _they-_ needed distance. It wouldn’t hurt them every time they looked at him. It would be easier the day he didn’t come back.

           

            Otabek officially announced his retirement from skating. He hadn’t been able to face it before, but by this point, no one was surprised. It had been nearly a year since they’d heard from him.

            “I love you,” he said to his parents. _I have to do this because I love you._ “I need to make a new life now.” _I have to keep myself from destroying yours._ “I’ll call you.”

            He didn’t call. It was easier to sound carefree through emails and letters, keep copies to hold the lies and omissions straight.

            It was easier not to hear their voices, soft and worried.

            In August, Zhibek flew back to London, and he almost smiled.

* * *

Yuri curled up in bed. Zoyenka settled on his hip, staring at two kittens, gangly and long-limbed, who wrestled by the foot of the bed.

            He’d found them in September, huddled by a trash can in the park. They hissed and slashed at him as he approached, but vampires didn’t have to worry about rabies or cat scratch disease, nor were they bothered by something as small as a kitten’s bite. Viktor had lifted his eyebrows when Yuri opened the door, two tiny bundles of fur wrapped in his jacket, but didn’t protest.

            _“I’m keeping them,”_ Yuri had insisted.

            _“Okay.”_

_“You… don’t mind?”_

Viktor had smiled. _“Even if I did, I think I’m outvoted,”_ he replied, gesturing at the tinier of the two cats, who was pressed against Yuri’s neck, having given up on her protests. _“But I want to name them, since you won’t let me get a puppy.”_

            _“Fine, whatever,”_ Yuri grumbled, hiding a grin. _“You’re a pretentious asshole, Viktor,”_ he said later, when Viktor had dubbed one Hermes and the other Calla. _“You can’t even tell them apart.”_

            Now, at the end of October, Yuri watched the cats play.

            “I know, Zoye, kids are annoying,” he murmured, stroking her soft fur. “They’re not as cute as you, though, I promise.”

            They were, but he wasn’t going to tell her that.

            _He’s twenty-two today,_ Yuri thought. _I wonder where he is._

            His phone buzzed with a text from Mila. She hadn’t quite forgiven him for the eight months of mourning, but he hadn’t forgiven himself for that either.

            _“I dedicated my program to you, brat.”_

            _“I know,”_ he’d said, not bothering to choke back tears. _“I saw. You stole my music.”_

Mila, apparently, was not a stranger to his world. It had been a shock when she hugged him, bringing with her a bitter-iron scent he’d come to associate with magic.

            _“I did tell you I was a witch when we first met,”_ she’d whispered, holding him tight. _“It’s not my fault you didn’t believe me.”_

**MB:** sara and i will meet you outside the hotel

 **MB:** we got… distracted ;)

 **YP:** tmi, baba

 **MB:** you doing ok?

 

            She should have been training for the Grand Prix, but a torn ligament in her knee had taken her off the ice until Russian Nationals. He should be the one worrying about her, but… Yuri eased his electric blanket out from under the pile of pillows, the flash of a dark undercut and solemn eyes flickering through his mind. It still hurt, but instead of a bullet wedged between his ribs, the pain was a dull, slow ache.

 

 **YP:** im good. fake fangs or nah?

 **MB:** you have real ones tho???

 **YP:** but these glow in the dark

 **MB:** well shit why are you even asking me then

 

            _I_ am _okay_ , Yuri decided.

* * *

             _Two years,_ Otabek thought. The cemetery around him was quiet, peaceful, the gravel path grinding under his feet. _Two years. It’s time._

            Twice he’d left without saying goodbye. The first was temporary, the lack of a farewell promising his return. The second had been razors embedded in his heart, the universe spinning out of control, the frantic recoil of _no this isn’t happening_ , as if putting it off meant Yuri could still come back.

            The stone edges of his name caught the last of the day’s light. Otabek ran his fingers across the letters. The moment was supposed to be bigger than this, he thought. It should have had weight, meaning, been an _end_ instead of… just this, cold marble under his hand, the sunset sinking under the horizon, the world still turning.

            People were supposed to speak. That’s what they did in the movies, emotional monologues, dragging some sort of closure and contact from the words, as if the other was somehow listening, understanding.

            Yuri couldn’t hear him.

            _I miss you._

_I love you._

            “Goodbye, Yura,” Otabek finally murmured, long after the last rays of sunlight sank into the summer grass.

            It didn’t feel any different. Grief welled in his chest as Otabek stood up. He wasn’t okay with it yet, would never be.

He wasn’t okay, but he could live with it.

Without him.

 


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're out of flashback territory now. 
> 
> More art happened!  
> [Shslshortie](http://shslshortie.tumblr.com/) drew [Yuri's haircut](http://shslshortie.tumblr.com/post/160936553302/my-entire-life-got-taken-over-by-iguanastevens-s) from chapter 26.
> 
> And a round-up of previous art for this story (I love you all so much, holy shit)  
> [Spectrometon's](http://spectrometon.tumblr.com/) art of [Angry Vampire Yuri and Sad Werewolf Otabek](https://spectrometon.tumblr.com/post/160719436197/angry-vampire-yuri-with-sad-werewolf-otabek-is-my).
> 
> [VictoriousNikiforov's](http://victoriousnikiforov.tumblr.com/post/160565124733) [super cute art](http://victoriousnikiforov.tumblr.com/post/160565124733/vampireyuri-and-werewolfotabek-inspired-by) of Otabek and Yuri - seriously, go look at this werewolf Otabek. 
> 
> [Imaginary_dragonling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginary_dragonling/pseuds/imaginary_dragonling) drew [this lovely art](http://imgur.com/mcCXtMT) of Yuri and Otabek from chapter 16 WITH CATS L:SDKFJ. 
> 
> And finally, [madimation's](http://madimation.tumblr.com/) art for this story:  
> [Reminders](https://leopardprinttrashchild.tumblr.com/post/157425325949/some-sketches-from-the-latest-chapter-of-roses) from all the way back in chapter 12.  
> [Emotional face touch](https://leopardprinttrashchild.tumblr.com/post/157590779659/more-sketches-from-a-heart-beats-at-night?is_related_post=1) from The Reconciliation in chapter 13.  
> [Romantic arm wrestling/cheating by nose kiss](https://leopardprinttrashchild.tumblr.com/post/159885282659/nose-kiss-or-how-to-get-the-upper-hand-while-arm?is_related_post=1) from chapter 22.

“I should have talked to Viktor before he went out,” groaned Yuri, slumped over the kitchen table. “ _Fuck,_ it was the perfect time, and I just-“

Otabek wrapped his arms around Yuri, propping his chin on the blond head, and let the still-surreal thrill spark between their skin. _He’s here, he’s really here._

“When he gets back will be fine too, Yura,” he murmured. “It’ll be okay.”

 _It’ll be okay. Yura._ Words that, a month ago, he could have never imagined crossing his lips again.

Yuri wore a tank top despite the December chill. Sleeves didn’t really make a difference, he’d told Otabek, without body heat to hold in. The bones of his shoulders pressed through pale skin, Yuri’s collarbone arching as he sighed. Otabek ducked his head, leaving a soft kiss on the crook of his neck. _You’re here, of course everything will be okay._

The corners of Yuri’s eyes crinkled, his vampiric version of a blush.

“You don’t have freckles anymore,” said Otabek, half trying to distract Yuri, half distracted himself. “Your shoulders used to have freckles all year.”

Yuri shrugged. _Vampire thing,_ he meant, but Otabek was caught in another train of thought, staring intently at Yuri’s back. Yuri twisted around as Otabek ran his hands across one shoulder, then the other, looking for the telltale splotch of ink.

 _Where is it?_ Trickles of panic crawled through the air as he looked at where Yuri’s tattoo should have been, whispering _it’s not real it’s not real you’re dreaming._

“Beka?” Yuri turned, cupping Otabek’s face in cool fingers. “What’s up?”

“Your tattoo.” Otabek swallowed, trying to clear the lump from his throat as he remembered Yuri grinning at him as the needle hummed across his skin, tracing the outlines of a cat across his shoulder blade. “It’s not there.”

“Hey, Beka, it’s okay,” Yuri said softly. “Everything healed, all my scars, the tattoo. I was so pissed off when I noticed.”

Otabek took a deep breath. It was easier to ground himself with Yuri’s eyes on his, the medicine beginning to work its way through his body.

“All of them?” Otabek looked more closely. Sure enough, the handful of faint marks left over from Yuri’s brief bout of teenage acne were gone. He thought about his own crop of scars, pearly lines that contrasted with his darker skin. “Pretty convenient, I guess.”

“Really fucking weird,” Yuri muttered, shifting in his seat. “Like, _all_ of them.”

“Yeah?” Otabek tilted his head, noting Yuri’s brief glance at his stomach, and sudden not-blush.

“It’s, um, kinda freaky,” he said, looking away. “I don’t- I didn’t actually realize it was a _scar,_ until…”

“Oh. _Oh.”_ Otabek tried to hide his blossoming grin and failed. “You don’t- can I?”

Yuri lifted the hem of his shirt, revealing perfectly smooth, unmarked skin.

“Vampires don’t have belly buttons.” Otabek laughed then, the simple absurdity taking over. “Oh my god, Yura, you don’t have a belly button.”

“Go fuck yourself, it was very startling,” Yuri insisted, scowling and dropping his shirt again. “You don’t think it’s weird?”

“Wolf, Yura,” Otabek reminded him. “You have to work a lot harder than that to bother me.”

“I’ll get you sometime,” Yuri grumbled, looking vaguely disappointed in his lack of dark mystique, and leaned back against Otabek. He looked up, and Otabek had a split second to prepare himself because Yuri had a question in his eyes, one of the heart-pounding, breath-stealing questions.

“Beka, why haven’t we kissed yet?” The inquiry was gentle, no trace of a demand or a challenge. Otabek sometimes forgot how soft Yuri could be, behind his quick tongue and bristling armor – or maybe it was that the years had tempered him.

“I-“ He’d wanted to, every time Yuri smiled or scowled, and if he asked, Yuri would have said yes, but… “It didn’t feel like- like the right time. We were always, one of us was always upset, or angry, and I didn’t- I guess I wanted it to be when we were both happy. Not because something was wrong.” Otabek sighed. “I’m sorry, it sounds-“

“Fucking sappy and romantic and thoughtful? Goddammit, Altin,” said Yuri, the tips of his fangs flashing as he tried to hide a smile. “Now I feel like an idiot, because I just-“ He touched one tooth with the tip of his tongue. “Last time it was, uh, a disaster.”

Otabek’s short laugh caught him by surprise.

“You know I used to have braces?” Yuri nodded – he’d been shown enough pictures to be familiar with every stage of Otabek’s childhood and teenage years. “When I was, um, fifteen or sixteen, I was dating this guy, and he had a lip ring. He came to a competition once, a local one, and… well, my coach had to help untangle us so I could skate.”

“Holy shit,” Yuri wheezed, crumpling against the table as he shook with laughter. “Your life isn’t real, Beka, Jesus. How does that even happen?”

“I don’t know,” Otabek said, sitting down and burying his face in his hands. “So, teeth. Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out. But-“

“I don’t think it’s silly. To wait. I understand.” Yuri ran his fingers across the smooth ceramic handle of his empty mug. “We… we don’t have a lot of happy memories anymore. I want this to be one.”

 _Thank you,_ thought Otabek. _I’m sorry._

What he said, instead, was: “I think I hear Viktor’s car.”

Yuri tilted his head, listening. It took him a couple more seconds to pick up the familiar engine’s purr and nod, eyes wide.

They waited in silence as tires scraped against the driveway. Two doors opened and closed; Otabek glanced at Yuri, who frowned.

“Chris, I think.”

Under other circumstances, Otabek would have been curious to finally meet the mysterious Chris whom Yuri had mentioned, fond disgust in his voice. As it was, he didn’t want Yuri to have to wait for another opportunity to speak with Viktor.

He blinked as an almost-familiar tone touched his ears, scrambling through old memories. Otabek knew the speaker, had known them – a hazy face floated in his mind, blurred and unfocused.

“Hi, Otabek,” said Christophe Giacometti, poking his head into the kitchen. Viktor stood behind him, blue eyes blank, shoulders slumping. “Good to see you again.”

Yuri sat frozen, staring at Viktor’s stricken expression.

“Go take a minute,” Chris said quietly, pushing Viktor towards the stairs. “I’ll explain.”

Christophe raised an eyebrow at Otabek, who held his gaze, not making a move to leave the kitchen and Yuri, before he started to talk.

Subterfuge. Disguises. It was Shakespearian in its complexity, and Otabek tipped his head towards Yuri in an unspoken question, trying to figure out if this was an elaborate joke. Viktor was… eccentric, certainly, but surely he wouldn’t-

“That fucking idiot,” hissed Yuri, hands clenched into fists on the table. “Of _course_ he would do this, he can’t just _talk_ to people, he has to decide what’s best for everyone else.”

Christophe Giacometti (who Otabek was slowly realizing wasn’t human, had never been human) sighed. Nothing more was necessary to remind them of Yuri’s role in the misunderstanding.

Yuri didn’t need reminding – he was shaking, jaw clenched. He ducked away when Otabek tried to lay a reassuring hand on his arm before storming out of the room. A door slammed upstairs.

“I should-“ Otabek jumped up to follow him, but Chris shook his head.

“Give him a minute,” he said, dumping a few spoonfuls of coffee into the mokka pot and sighing at Otabek’s unconvinced frown. “Or you _could_ try to talk to Yuri now, he’ll yell something he doesn’t really mean, feel guilty about that too, and work himself into even more of a state.”

Otabek sat back down.

“You didn’t like him.”

“True,” Chris replied, removing a mug from the cabinet and glancing into the bottom. He grimaced and placed it in the sink, fishing out a replacement. “When I heard you stopped training, dropped from the competition last minute, I assumed it was something to do with Yuri – a breakup, or a fight.”

“It wasn’t,” he said shortly, unable to keep the bitterness from his tone. Chris fiddled with the stove, but Otabek had no patience for questions that weren’t questions. Instead, he gave an answer that wasn’t an answer. “It wasn’t something Yuri did.”

Chris, however, seemed satisfied with the curt reply. “This, with Viktor and Yuuri, isn’t completely his fault,” he commented, and Otabek nodded his agreement without thinking. “The key word being _completely_ , of course. What he said about Viktor deciding what’s right for everybody else – he wasn’t wrong.”

“Why did you help?” It wasn’t that he was looking for a way to shift blame from Yuri, not exactly. “With the… dressing up.”

“Ah, yes,” sighed Chris. “Bets are essentially bargains.” The coffee burbled, steamed as it was poured into the waiting mug. “If you’ll excuse me, it’s time to drag Viktor from his moping.”

Otabek tipped the coffee pot experimentally as Chris left the room.

It was empty. He went upstairs without brewing more, pausing when he noticed Chris leaning on the wall by Viktor’s door, lifting an eyebrow, cool and calculating – Otabek wondered how he’d missed the keen intelligence when they’d last met, noticing only salacious humor and unapologetic sexuality.

“I didn’t know he called,” he said quietly, looking away from the unsympathetic judgment that raked across his face. “I never meant to hurt him.”

“But you did.”

“I did,” whispered Otabek, watching a dust mote sparkle in the hallway’s low light. He felt frozen in place until Chris nodded slowly, green eyes luminous behind wire-framed glasses.

“I assume Mila doesn’t know you’re here,” Chris said. Otabek paled, forced himself to exhale. “It would be better to tell her sooner rather than later. Don’t make Yuri choose between you.”

* * *

“Are you sure-“

“I’m sure I’m not going to be the person who fucks this up for him. Are you coming with me or not?”

“I was the one who said I’m going with you, Yura. But it might be better to wait.”

“Because waiting worked _so_ damn well before.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“Almost.”

“Is this-“

“Beka, I’m not mad at you, and you’re probably right, but please shut the fuck up.”

* * *

“Time for your family meeting, babe.” Chris prodded at the mound of blankets and heartbreak that was Viktor Nikiforov, having deemed half an hour of sulking more than enough. “You can’t put this off.”

Viktor moaned into his pillow and reached for his phone, which lay haphazardly on the corner of the nightstand. He needed to talk to Yuuri, to apologize; he’d phoned from the car, sent a flurry of texts when the call went to voicemail on the second ring, but it wasn’t _worth_ anything if Yuuri didn’t hear him – and if he couldn’t hear Yuuri. With Yuuri’s voice in his ear, Viktor was sure he would find the right words, somehow know what Yuuri needed to hear from him.

“Nope.” Christophe nimbly plucked the phone from his fingers. “You’re almost forty years older than I am, I’m not giving you the clingy talk again.”

“I _lied_ to him, and he was never…” It seemed ridiculous to think of Yuuri (or Phichit) as slayers, to associate them with the shrewd individuals who talked about _necessity_ and _unavoidable casualties._ Even Yuri, inexperienced and mistrustful, had apparently known better – “Yuri lied to me. Why would he- he tried to tell me, and I wasn’t _listening_ to him.”

“Talk to your brat, Nikiforov, not me,” said Chris, his tone soft under the harsh words. “And with Katsuki. I don’t know if you can fix this, but don’t do that thing you do and run away without actually trying.”

“You’re being _sensible._ I thought you were just a pretty face when we first met,” grumbled Viktor. “I’m… I’m sorry, Chris, I shouldn’t have forced you to help me, I-“

“Forgot?” Chris sighed. “Accepted.”

Viktor dragged himself upright, draping an arm across his friend’s shoulders in a silent _thank you_ before turning to the door.

Chris’s voice followed him across the carpet, lilting and teasing.

“I _am_ a pretty face too, of course.”

The soft chime of Viktor’s phone drew two sets of eyes, and he snatched it from Chris’s hand.

* * *

**OA:** In the city, everything is fine. Yuri needs to do a thing? I think we’ll be back soon.

 **VN:** What is he doing?

 **OA:** I can’t say. I’m sorry. He says he’ll talk to you when we get home.

 **VN:** Somehow, I thought you were more sensible than Yuri.

 **OA:** ???

 **VN:** … Point taken.

* * *

            Flights to Japan were expensive. Yuuri shoved his laptop across the rickety wooden table that served as their combined dining area, counter, auxiliary workspace, and bookshelf. As much as he wanted to go home, it would have to wait until their project was officially dead. Which meant emailing his advisor and explaining that he was doing more harm than good, that he’d been arrogant to assume he could pull off a study like this.

            A fist thumped against wood, demanding and harsh.

            Yuuri desperately wanted to ignore the person pounding on the apartment door, but unfortunately, _they_ wouldn’t ignore _him._ Maybe if he pretended not to be home, they’d go away-

            “I _know_ you’re there, I can hear you breathing,” the visitor shouted, his thick accent blurring across the syllables. He continued banging on the door, rattling the empty dishes scattered across the kitchenette. “Even if I can’t come in I can sure as fuck break your goddamn door!”

            Yuuri sighed and dragged himself into the cramped hallway, scratching at a spot of flaking white paint on the wall. The hammering fell silent as his footsteps echoed across the creaking wooden floor. The lock _clunked_ heavily as Yuuri turned it, tumblers protesting the movement.

            “Invite me in.” Yurio – no, _Yuri Plisetsky,_ not Nikiforov, glared at him.

            He wasn’t sure if it was the lingering traces of shock and anxiety tickling his skin like spiders, or the pale face in front of him cutting sharp angles into reality when he’d last seen it smirking out from an all-too-final news article, but Yuuri stepped back from the doorway.

            “Come in, I guess.” Yuuri could understand why Phichit had caved, going along with the lies; it would be hard to say no to the boy who should have been three years dead, who _had_ died.

            “Took you long enough, asshole,” Yuri growled, denting the sentimentality of his thoughts. “My brother is a idiot, but it’s my fault. Stop being a fucking coward and talk to him.”

            “There’s nothing to talk about,” Yuuri said, the admission sticking in his throat like thorns. _It was all a lie._ “Viktor knows we’re not a threat now, so he doesn’t have to waste his time with me anymore.”

            “The hell are you talking about?” Instead of leaving, Yurio pushed farther into the tiny flat, pacing across the worn floorboards.

            “It wasn’t _real,_ ” snapped Yuuri. He wished the gluey tears would fall already and not coat his tongue, slowly choking the words from his lips, or just leave him alone entirely – after all, was it really a breakup without an actual relationship? “I don’t know why you lied to me, why you didn’t tell him, but it-“

            “What the fuck, you’re _leaving?_ ” Yurio was staring at his open laptop, still perched where Yuuri had left it, displaying the list of flights he’d been scrolling through. “You can’t- you’re just going to run away? What about Viktor? What about your fucking _book?_ ”

            “Well, I-“

            “You’re giving up.” Yurio slammed the laptop shut. “I thought you and Phichit wanted to help, but it’s not fun anymore, is it? We’re just a science project and we’re not _interesting_ enough-”

He was cut off as Yuuri’s phone started to ring, as it had been doing on and off since leaving the interview. Yuuri had been reading the texts from Phichit, trying to explain, but Viktor’s phone calls were too painful to pick up. Yuri caught sight of the name on the screen as it buzzed across the counter.

“You’re not even going to answer him, tell him you’re leaving? Good fucking riddance, then, Viktor really dodged a bullet – I thought you liked him, but we’re just _subjects_ to you, right?” Yurio wasn’t yelling anymore. His voice had fallen to a ragged, broken whisper that could etch glass, shatter steel, and Yuuri flinched as the razor edges scraped across his nerves. “At first I let him keep thinking you were a hunter because I was pissed off for going out looking for slayers like he’s trying to get himself killed, and then bringing one _back to the house,_ and- and another thing- and then I told you to keep your mouth shut so he’d squirm for a couple days before figuring it out because how can even _Viktor_ be that dense, but you know what? I also thought that maybe this way you’d treat him like an actual person instead of a vampire case study because I knew he liked you, I’ve never seen him be so stupid over someone before, but-“

“I do care about him!” Yuuri took his glasses off and set them on the table. It was easier to deal with the world when it was blurred out of focus, its demands fuzzy and distant. Was Yurio saying that Viktor hadn’t been lying about all of it? “And I do want to help, it was never-“

“Then _why don’t you fucking answer him?_ ” Blond hair whipped through the air as Yurio turned away, but not before Yuuri caught a glimpse of his expression. It wasn’t angry, he thought - Yuri looked hurt, terrified. “You can’t, you can’t just ignore him like that if you care about him, cut him off, you can’t do that to people, you don’t know what it- you can’t leave without even telling him-“

 _I’m not leaving,_ Yuuri tried to tell him. He _was_ going to talk to Viktor after a few more hours of licking his wounds and scraping the remnants of his pride from the floor, but his boyfriend ( _boyfriend?_ ) had been lying to him for a month, had intentionally sabotaged their research, and he _needed a minute._ Hysterical screaming teenagers had not been part of his plan, which mostly involved copious amounts of ice cream and a good old-fashioned panic attack.

Yurio didn’t stay to listen.

The door slammed shut with enough force to knock an empty tea cup from the edge of the table. It fell to the floor and shattered, spraying glittering shards across the room.

There was a metaphor in that somewhere, he thought.

* * *

Otabek was waiting outside the building when Yuri stumbled outside, wiping angrily at his eyes. His expression was soft: of course, he’d probably heard their conversation, knew that Yuri had fucked it up beyond repair, but the frown that creased a tiny line between his eyebrows held only quiet concern.

Viktor would be upset, was already hurting, but Yuri knew he wouldn’t blame him either. No one ever did. Chance after chance after chance, every one of them reduced to ashes.

Yuri donned the proffered helmet without a word and climbed onto the bike behind Otabek, hiding his face against the faded leather of his jacket.

They were supposed to be mad at him, not each other. Instead, everyone battered themselves against the rocks of their own emotions – Viktor would be worried about the _why,_ wonder what he did wrong, and Yuuri grabbed for heartache like a drowning man struggling for air. Yuri wrapped his arms around Otabek, who carried his guilt and pain close to his chest, moving carefully through the world that seemed determined to shatter him, so desperate not to injure that everything cut all the deeper.

And here Yuri was in the middle of it all, an explosion, a minefield, a forest fire burning and burning heedless of the scars left by his touch.

 


	29. Chapter 29

            “I’ll stay here unless Yura doesn’t want me to.” Despite Otabek’s level tone, Viktor heard the pace of his heart pick up for an instant, betraying the boy’s nerves.

They sat around the kitchen table. Yuri was staring down at the wood, tracing the scars and whorls with a fingertip as if the secrets of the universe were trapped within its surface. Otabek’s eyes flicked between Viktor and Yuri, dark with worry.

Viktor nodded.

“Yuri?” He would have preferred to talk to Yuri alone, still wasn’t quite sure how the dynamic had shifted under his feet when their household had become three instead of two, but it was time for him to do more listening and less… organizing.

“It’s okay, Beka,” Yuri said quietly, without lifting his eyes. Otabek, however, seemed unconvinced – he seemed caught between motion and immobility until Yuri brushed a hand against his arm, a silent conversation passing between them in an instant in the private language that wasn’t quite _Yuri_ and wasn’t quite _Otabek,_ but was somehow completely _Yuri-and-Otabek._

Viktor wasn’t surprised to hear Otabek make his way to Yuri’s room, instead of the basement, when he left the kitchen. He waited until the door closed, the bedroom’s soundproofing giving them privacy even with their sensitive hearing.

“Yuri, I think I know _what_ happened,” said Viktor. Pure mental exhaustion kept the frustration and distress from leaking out, the same numbness that used to let him smile for the cameras, impress the judges with his passion and emotion. “Can you please tell me why?”

“I was angry,” muttered Yuri. He worried at the side of his thumb, picking at the ragged nail.

“That was the night after you and Otabek… met in the city, yes?” Viktor sighed. Had he known the history between them, he could have handled that situation more delicately – or, more likely, he would have sent Otabek packing without a second thought. Yuri blinked slowly in acknowledgement, and Viktor dug deeper into his memory. The five or six weeks had passed like years, remodeling the landscape of their lives more effectively than any earthquake. “And you were unhappy when I invited Yuuri over for - _to -_ dinner.”

“I thought you were going to get yourself killed when you went out _looking_ for slayers,” Yuri retorted, running his fingers through his hair, winding the long strands into coils. “I was pissed off and fucking terrified, I wanted- I wanted to get back at you, and when I figured it out I hated the stupid questions he was asking because you liked him and he was just- it felt like he was using you, and then when Phichit showed up I didn’t know what to do because you’d freak out, so I kept- kept lying, and now Yuuri’s leaving, and you’re supposed to be mad at me, someone finally made you happy and I ruined it-“

Yuri’s voice rose, tangling and tripping over itself as he unconsciously gripped the back of his neck, and Viktor leaned across the table to touch his wrist gently.

“Take a minute. One thing at a time.” Viktor tried to comb the sentences into some semblance of order, pulling on the first thread he found. “I’m upset that you lied to me, but I was the one who decided to- Chris explained it?” Yuri nodded. “He told me it was a bad idea, by the way. You didn’t make me do that.”

“You wouldn’t have if I hadn’t- if you didn’t think… I tried to tell Yuuri it was my fault, so he’d know, I thought he wouldn’t be mad at you then. But he’s quitting. He’s _leaving_.”

“I’m going to be sixty-nine years old in three days, Yura. You’re twenty,” Viktor said. Guilt tasted bitter, he thought, like childhood memories of boiled cabbage. “You did the wrong thing, and I know you did try to tell me. I should have known better. You can’t take full responsibility.”

“But he’s- he was looking at plane tickets to Japan, you called and he didn’t answer-“

_Oh._

“It’s okay, it’s not like it was for you.” He paused. “With Otabek.”

Yuri jumped in his seat, startled. “You know it was him?”

“I guessed, the night you two made up,” he admitted. _After a week of hoping you’d just work things out._ “And I asked him later, to be sure.”

They talked about other things, too, one of the many days they’d crossed paths, unable to sleep with the sun high overhead, until Viktor could say he almost knew the quiet, solemn boy. _He’s so young,_ Viktor found himself thinking every time, an echo of the moment Yuri became a part of his life.

He took out his phone, which had been almost – but not quite – eerily silent and passed it across the table to Yuri.

 

 **KY:** i need more time to think but i want to talk. can i call you tomorrow night?

 **VN:** I understand. Tomorrow is fine. Thank you.

 **KY:** if yurio agrees, phichit and i want to talk to him too. he said some things we need to think about. and please tell him i’m staying in berlin for now.

“We’ll work this out, Yuri,” Viktor said softly. “And if Yuuri and I can’t- it’s not your fault. And I’m not going to scold you, because I think you feel bad enough already.”

            “I’m sorry,” Yuri whispered. “What can I _do?_ ”

            Viktor sat back in his chair and rested his elbows on the table, contemplating.

            “I’d like you to apologize to Yuuri and Phichit,” he answered slowly. “Properly, without yelling. Talk to them about what it was Yuuri mentioned. If… if Yuuri agrees, I want to help them get their work back on track – I’m afraid I’ve delayed it, and I might need your assistance with that.”

            “Okay,” Yuri agreed, and Viktor wished he could record the lack of argument for posterity (or blackmail).

            “And,” Viktor added, “I… I’d like you to start going to therapy again.”

            “What? But-“

            “I’m not saying you’re where you were two years ago, котик,” Viktor reassured him. “I won’t force you, but I’m asking you to please consider it.”

            “Fine,” he grumbled. The lines of his shoulders relaxed slightly as if a weight had been removed and Yuri scowled, trying to hide the spark of relief. “I’ll call her tomorrow.”

            They stared at each other, drained, but tension Viktor hadn’t even consciously noticed had melted away.

He could only hope his talk with Yuuri would go as smoothly.

* * *

          Yuri stumbled to his room. Every joint felt like it was made of elastic and held up with tension, ready to snap and collapse at any moment – he briefly wondered if Otabek would find him draped bonelessly across the stairs, too exhausted to finish his ascent.

            He’d been prepared for a trial by fire, but instead he was dropped into a river, carried by the current and spat out on a distant bank, wrung out and shaking.

            His knees decided to cooperate. Yuri opened the bedroom door, unsurprised to find Otabek curled up on top of the blankets with two cats sprawled across his legs and Zoyenka tucked up against his chest; he’d begun to fall asleep unexpectedly, finally making up for the hours lost to relentless anxiety and cut short by nightmares he wouldn’t discuss. The medicine beginning to take effect, he assumed.

            _“It’s… quieter,”_ Otabek had said when Yuri asked. _“Like I can think again. Or I can stop thinking.”_

            He blinked sleepily at Yuri, moving to sit up until Mitya grumbled and shifted on his hip, claws catching at the fabric of Otabek’s jeans.

            “It’s okay,” Yuri said quietly, before Otabek could ask. He picked up Zoyenka, ignoring her chirps of protest as she was resettled on the other side of the bed, and crawled into her spot, pressing his face against Otabek’s shirt. “Yuuri’s not- he’s not leaving.”

            “Are _you_ okay?” Otabek’s voice was a low rumble deep in his chest. He pulled Yuri closer until he could feel the pulse in the hollow of Otabek’s neck, whispering _I’m here I’m here I’m here._

            “Viktor wants- he asked me to go back,” mumbled Yuri. “To therapy.”

            Otabek paused for a moment and Yuri listened to the soft flow of his breath.

            “… Will you?”

            “Yeah.” Yuri closed his eyes. “I hurt him, and maybe if I was- I stopped going as soon as I could, before. I wanted to show I was better, and Viktor- he worried it was too early. And now I… if I’d stayed with it, maybe I wouldn’t have fucked everything up so much. With him and Yuuri. And you, at first. I, um, I thought about it when you started, but I didn’t- I thought it-“

            “You wanted to show _me_ you were okay,” Otabek said, picking up the idea while it was still only half-formed in Yuri’s mind. Yuri felt a brush of warm air as Otabek kissed the top of his head gently, as if afraid that more than the lightest touch would break him. “Now, what was that you said before, hmm… _it’s okay not to be okay?_ ”

            “Asshole,” grumbled Yuri, trying to erase the tiny gap between their bodies. There were benefits to not having to breath, he thought, snuggling closer.

            “I’m sorry.” The words were worn and familiar against Otabek’s lips. “What you said to Yuuri earlier. If I could change one thing-“

            “Beka, no.” _I don’t want to talk about this,_ Yuri thought. _I don’t want to remember how much I hurt you too, not right now._ “There’s a lot I’d change, but we fucking can’t.”

            “I know. I just…” Otabek sighed, slow and heavy. “I don’t want you to feel like that, ever. If I’m not here, it’s because- because I didn’t have a choice. I love you too much to walk away again, no matter what.”

            “I do know.” Yuri felt the feather touch of Otabek’s heart, the promise that _he’s here, he’s still here._ “I love you too much to let that happen.”

            Even without looking, Yuri could see the small smile curve across Otabek’s face, wishing they could both forget the sadness behind it. But for now…

            Yuri fell asleep listening to Otabek’s breath deepen and slow, and for the moment, everything was okay.

* * *

“Can we talk, um, in person?”

An olive branch.

An unwilling battle.

A new beginning – or an end.

“There’s a café near Kottbusser Tor. It’s open late.”

Viktor readied his white flag; Yuuri armored his heart against the coming blows.

“Green tea, please.”

Yuuri watched Viktor across the small table.

_Don’t hide from me, please._

“Nothing for me, thanks.”

_I don't want to hide from you._

Without the props of humanity, he felt vulnerable and exposed, managing a close-lipped smile as the waitress nodded.

Viktor was used to fighting the way one fights a river, letting himself be dragged along by the current, city to city across the years, fighting for survival but never the forgotten dream of control.

For Yuuri, every step was a battle, had always been a battle, always would be – but the only true enemies lived inside his mind, whispering to him about fears and horror with the voices of _his mother his father his sister Minako Yuuko, you’ll never be anything, you’ll never succeed, you should give up now, it’s already over._ He didn’t know how to stop fighting when the entire world would close in on him if he paused to take a breath.

“I’m sorry.”

 _Sorry for lying sorry for hurting you sorry for not_ listening.

“I know.”

_Are you sorry that it wasn’t real, or sorry that it was?_

“Please, Yuuri, tell me- tell me what I need to say, what you need to hear.”

_Who do I need to be to fix this?_

“Just the truth. I don't want you to pretend anymore, I want… I want you to be you.”

Silence.

Yuuri’s heartbeat marked the seconds; Viktor wished for his own to thud to life, give him something to listen to other than the shocked void of his thoughts, his _self._

_I can’t do that. I don’t know how. I’ve only ever been what people wanted me to be, what they needed me to be. But…_

_Maybe I can be myself for you, this time._

“I thought you wanted me to be human.” _Why don’t you?_ “That helping didn’t mean helping… us.”

Because it wasn’t ever so simple, _something for nothing,_ action without reaction. Everything in Viktor’s life was an exchange, a bargain: this many blisters for a gold medal, a favor for a favor, building his existence on stacks of debts and connections and ulterior motives, this action so guilt would be satisfied.

Christophe and Viktor used to be more similar, until Yuri fell from the air and broke not just himself but the basis of Viktor’s world, in which caring had been a luxury that must be given up when the price rose too high, empty passion and calculating eyes. When had he stopped being Vitya, the boy who loved the ice and believed that it loved him back, and instead decided that the universe wasn’t caring, it simply _was?_

“I hoped that you believed me. Believed _in_ me.”

_But why should you, if I’ve never been able to believe in myself? After all, I’m just… Yuuri._

The river wasn’t carrying him anymore. It dragged him under, thrown by the current, pulling him _away away away._ Away from Yuuri. And for the first time in his life, Viktor fought the water, reaching out for shore.

“I did. I _do._ I always have.” There were hunters for a reason, though. Viktor had seen those reasons. And, in a sense, he _was_ that reason. “I wanted you to believe in us, that we’re not all waiting to become monsters. And I wanted to… be with you. Spend time with you. I wanted you to believe in _me,_ but I didn’t know how to do it without- without lying.”

In his first professional show, Yuuri had danced a battle, fallen to an imaginary blade. During rehearsal, his partner had always extended a hand to help him up from the floor. The fight was only an act, a performance, and he didn’t want to pretend.

A bridge was being built. Clumsily, unstable, nowhere near complete, but a growing promise that wouldn’t let Yuuri look away from Viktor’s pale gaze.

“The stories Chris told me. They’re why you went with it, didn’t confront us or chase us out, even when you thought we were dangerous.” If it was only Viktor by himself, Viktor who took risks the way others cooked dinner, with a half-empty fridge and a clumsy recipe and a heavy dash of _fuck it,_ he would have thrown himself after Yuuri, followed him across oceans the moment their eyes locked in the dark little bar so many weeks ago. “The rain, that was…”

“Yuri.” The moment Viktor understood that his own survival was due as much to pure luck as careful choices. “He went for a walk in a storm. I always- the rain made me uncomfortable, it felt _wrong,_ so I always carried an umbrella, a coat, and never thought about it, but he never learned to think of fear as anything except a challenge.”

The droplets of water, _trick-trick-trickling_ down the window, tiny waterfalls and branching rivers as spring asserted its damp presence.

“I didn’t realize that rain – it’s running water. When he didn’t come home, I went out looking.”

Viktor had thought that he’d missed something again, stepped out the door with a growing panic that Yuri had run, had left. Only reflex caused him to pull on the waterproof jacket, lift an umbrella over his head.

It had been that close.

“It was almost dawn when I found him in the park, asleep on a bench, and he wouldn’t wake up.”

Hair soaked, clothing soaked, limp and unresponsive as Viktor picked him up. They didn’t put the pieces together until later, when Yuri said he’d felt sleepy, numb, a wind-up doll without the energy to move.

“What else was real?”

Not the stories, the fears, the hopes – Yuuri’s words sought an answer to the warm glances, fleeting touches, the soft, chaste kisses.

“All of it.”

The white flag was folded and hidden away, armor discarded, olive branch merely a decoration. It had never been a battle. It was always a dance, even if they hadn’t known the steps.

Viktor reached across the table, his open hand a promise and an apology.

“I’m Viktor Nikiforov. I used to be a competitive figure skater, and now I’m a vampire. I live with my adopted brother, his five cats, and a young man who is probably his boyfriend but I’m really not sure. In two days, I’ll be sixty-nine years old, and I understand if that’s a problem. I want to help you write your book, and I want- I want to date you and dance with you, and kiss you without pretending I don’t have fangs.”

Yuuri took his hand, warm skin against the cool fingers.

“I’m, um, I’m Katsuki Yuuri. I used to be a dancer, and now I’m a twenty-nine year old graduate student writing a thesis with my best friend and translator for a department that doesn't officially exist, and I’m afraid we’re not doing a very good job of it. And I… I’d like that.”


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thank you to [dell_x](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dell_x/pseuds/dell_x) for helping me with the French!

The dark wood loomed over him, daunting and mocking.

Otabek silently cursed whoever decided that kitchen cabinets should have shelves two meters from the floor, as if that was an acceptable and convenient location.

Normally, he’d climb onto the counter to retrieve whatever it was that he needed, or pull over a chair. The latter was impossible because all three of the kitchen chairs were occupied. The appeal of the former was diminished by the fact that two of the three chairs were occupied by Christophe and his boyfriend, who were seated at the kitchen table listening to Yuri rant about how only Viktor would be late to his own birthday party because he had to wash his hair.

Otabek could feel Chris’s cool gaze brushing against the back of his neck, reserved but not openly hostile. Another second chance, one he still couldn’t convince himself he entirely deserved.

“Yura,” he murmured during one of the many pauses in which Yuri had to stop and search for the appropriate (or rather, most inappropriate) English curses, and flicked his eyes to the cabinet. “I need the tomato paste. It’s on the second shelf.”

Yuri stood up and peered over Otabek’s shoulder. “Which one is it?”

“In the middle, the small can.”

“Beka, the labels are in Turkish. I don’t speak Turkish.”

“Neither do I, they have pictures. It’s-“

Suddenly, the floor was a lot farther away and the shelf was at a much more manageable height, because Otabek was sitting on Yuri’s shoulder. He picked up the tin of tomato paste, which was indeed in the center of the shelf, helpfully emblazoned with a cartoon tomato, and the only can in the cabinet.

“Very helpful, Yura,” he said, flicking a strand of hair that had escaped from Yuri’s messy bun.

“This way was easier.” Yuri smirked up at him, his arm wrapped loosely around Otabek’s knees, and made no move to let him down. “You’re light. And small. And fragile, like a little-“

“Yura, _no,_ I’m not a-“

“- a little baby bird,” finished Yuri.

“I won the arm wrestling,” Otabek reminded him. “You’re breaking our deal.”

“Cheating doesn’t count as winning, Beka.”

“We never said that cheating was against the rules.”

“What the- fuck you, that’s not-“

Otabek sighed, resigning himself to his fate as Yuri shifted, flipping Otabek so he was draped, facedown, over Yuri’s other shoulder. Chris’s boyfriend, Luca, snorted with almost-restrained laughter.

All the conversation had been in English up to this point, out of respect for the guests, so it took Otabek a moment to process when Chris turned to his boyfriend and half-whispered, “Il pourrait presque être fae, avec sa logique.”

_He could almost be fae, with that logic._

Yuri huffed with exaggerated annoyance while Otabek froze.

Chris knew he spoke French – had spoken it _with_ him, years before. Had he forgotten? When Luca replied with a few quiet, terse words and an uncomfortable grimace, Otabek realized that their voices were pitched low enough that humans wouldn’t be able to make out more than a murmur of sounds.

 **“** Il n'est pas de mon cour, je suis sûr que j'aurais dû savoir **.”**

_He’s not of my court, I would have known._

Christophe didn’t realize Otabek could understand him.

“Beshka?” Yuri’s hand brushed against the back of his knee before he was set back down on the floor, which felt wobbly and no closer than it had been a moment before.

Or, Chris knew that Otabek understood every word as clearly as if it had been whispered into his ear in Kazakh, and wanted to see what he would do – eavesdrop, keep his secrets close, or make their positions clear and in the process lay bare his lack of humanity.

A test, then. Or a simple, if rude, mistake.

Yuri, noticing the rising tension – or, just as likely, hearing the catch of Otabek’s breath as he fought through his options – scowled across the room.

Letting Yuri step in would be the wrong answer for either situation.

He didn’t need to panic, he told himself. The worst that could happen was that Christophe wouldn’t like or trust him, which would be neither novel nor a change in the status quo of Otabek’s life. Nevertheless, the wolf whined anxiously in the back of his mind, ready to fight or flee, remembering the countless times other people didn’t like or trust him, the taste of blood against his teeth and the adrenaline rush that reminded Otabek that, despite it all, he was still alive.

“La bibliotheque c'est meillure pour le conversations privé,” he said, forcing himself to turn away from Christophe.

_The library is better for private conversations._

Behind him, Luca sighed, sheepish. Chris hummed under his breath.

“Phichit and Yuuri are walking up the driveway.” Back to English, though every language had begun to feel alien and awkward, heavy on Otabek’s tongue. “Yuri, can you finish the sauce? The manti are already done. I’ll let Viktor know, he won’t hear them from his room.”

Otabek’s heart pounded in his ears as he climbed the stairs, echoed in the soft tap of his knuckles against Viktor’s door, the click of the latch behind him as he crept into Yuri’s room and scooped up one of the ever-present cats.

Just a minute to calm himself.

Just a minute to wonder if he could ever deserve a place in Yuri’s life, ever move past the suspicion and judgment, ever look in the mirror and see more than his mistakes.

Just a minute to breathe.

 

:: :: ::

 

It took about twenty minutes for duties to be appropriately shuffled. Phichit was handed a messily scrawled recipe the moment he stepped through the door ( _“Yuri, I have no idea what this is supposed to taste like-“_ ), and Christophe was dragged into the library, where absolutely no murder would take place, with a candlestick or otherwise.

Yuri picked up two mugs of very different liquids and met Otabek, who was sporting wet hair and a clean shirt, halfway up the stairs.

“It’s fine, Yura,” he said, one corner of his mouth curving into a half smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “He just surprised me.”

“He was out of line.” Yuri sighed. “Chris… does that, sometimes. It’s his way of getting to know people, but he’s not used to people figuring out he’s doing it.”

The airhead act, hiding behind sexuality and easy smiles – every step was a game, and every game was more than play.

“You talked to him?” Otabek looked away, tracing the bannister with a finger. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I did, and then Viktor, then a short break for coffee, and now I think Luca is having a word.”

Otabek blanched. “Viktor? I didn’t mean to- I don’t want to cause problems between them.”

“Idiot,” muttered Yuri, rolling his eyes. “Chris, not you. I mean, you too, but he broke the laws of hospitality – or not broke, I think, but on the edge? Anyway, there are basically rules he has to follow, but he treated you like another guest and not his host. He has to apologize to Viktor, and make it up to you.”

“Oh,” replied Otabek, frowning. “Or what?”

Yuri shrugged. “He turns purple and his hair falls out? Who the hell knows.” He held out one of the cups in his hand to Otabek. “Um, he made coffee for you. He was pretty insistent about it.”

“I hope he made enough for everybody.” A real smile, this time – apparently, the drink held some nuanced message that likely only Chris and Otabek would ever understand. The subtlety inherent in so many interactions in this world seemed to come naturally to Otabek, thought Yuri, more so than it ever would for him. “Is it time to eat?”

“Cheers,” said Yuri, lifting his own mug.

Viktor’s fondness for dinner parties was, frankly, baffling.

In the kitchen, Yuuri had taken over the much-neglected manti sauce, exiling Phichit to the table with his own cup of coffee. Several Tupperware containers were scattered across the counter, their contents being reheated and transferred to serving dishes (disposable – Otabek’s kitchenware consisted of two plates, two bowls, and a ragtag collection of non-silver silverware). He brandished a large spoon, shooing Viktor away from the stove.

“It’s your birthday, Vitya.”

“I’m trying to be a good host,” Viktor whined. “Besides, I won’t sneak bites like Phichit.”

“ _No_ \- oh, hi, Otabek, right?” Yuuri stuck out his hand, almost hitting Otabek with the spoon, before hastily handing the utensil off to Viktor. Otabek blinked, and Yuri wondered if it was possible to die (again) from secondhand social anxiety. “Um, I brought katsudon, and Phichit said he thought you didn’t eat pork, so I kept the meat separate and made some chicken too, I hope that’s okay.“

“Thank you.”

The room felt a little warmer. Yuri made a point of gagging when Viktor snuck by and lifted a plate off the counter, blowing a kiss to Katsuki as he slipped out of the room. Yuuri trailed after him, protesting.

“Yuuri asked me if I thought he should bring _something_ for Viktor too,” stage-whispered Phichit, “if you know what I mean.”

Yuri snorted into his mug of blood – lukewarm, now, but palatable – and shifted into a scowl as Phichit stood and opened his arms for a hug, before reconsidering and offering a handshake instead. Yuri smirked at him, ignoring the gesture, and Phichit turned to Otabek instead, jumping a little when Otabek grasped his hand.

“Sorry, you’re, uh, very warm.”

A flicker of doubt crossed Otabek’s face and Yuri shrugged. _You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to, and you don’t have to hide, here._

He spoke carefully, each word measured and weighted. “It’s a werewolf thing.”

“Oh.” Grey eyes widened comically. “I don’t mean to be rude, but… werewolves are real?”

“I was surprised too,” Otabek said quietly.

“Okay, cool,” replied Phichit, grinning. Otabek’s shoulders relaxed as if he’d passed another test, and internal milestone that meant more than his calm voice betrayed. “So, if you don’t mind me asking – how are _you two_ now?”

A glance passed between Yuri and Otabek, quick and teasing; one dark eyebrow quirked upwards, exasperated and amused.

“It’s complicated,” Yuri said. “He’s a Soviet sleeper agent. Viktor and I are trying to convince him that the Iron Curtain fell.”

“Товарищ,” added Otabek.

“I see,” replied Phichit, eyes sparkling. “Anything _else?_ ”

Yuri scowled. Someone as cheerful and peppy as Phichit should be easier to surprise, he thought, adding evidence to his theory that optimists were actually aliens. Otabek caught his eye and tapped the side of his neck, and Yuri bit his lip to stop himself from laughing.

“Renewable blood source,” he tried. Phichit nodded sagely. “Very convenient.”

“Super healing lets me really give back to the community,” Otabek said, face blank. “I like to do my part.”

“Of course.” Phichit turned to Otabek. “Can you shed any light on the situation? After all, I did run the betting pool.”

Another brief moment of eye contact, and Otabek stepped closer to Yuri, draping an arm around his waist. Phichit squeaked under his breath.

“It’s like a happy medium…” Otabek said softly. His face had softened, his dark eyes were almost glowing, and Yuri _knew_ that glow. He lifted his mug to his face, hiding his own smile. Phichit was almost bouncing in his seat. “… between necrophilia and bestiality.”

Phichit fell off his chair. Yuri snorted instead of swallowing, spraying the table and his jeans with fine droplets of blood.

Without a word, Otabek tossed Yuri a towel and picked up one of the remaining platters of food.

Yuri ran upstairs to change his clothes, letting the bubbly giddiness wash through his body, buoyed by the crinkles of laughter in Otabek’s face that he’d missed so much.

Otabek might not get to be okay, but Yuri would gladly bear the cold, nagging worry of uncertainty if it meant Otabek could at least be happy.

* * *

The weak winter sun was warm on Otabek’s face, sparkling against the white clouds of his breath as he ran. He’d fallen asleep after dinner, exhausted by the easy conversation as they’d crowded into the living room and balanced their plates on their knees – the library, it turned out, had been a dining room until Viktor had it remodeled to better suit his needs. The party had been loud, and busy, and… fun. Other-Yuuri teased Viktor about pretending to eat, his shyness fading into an earnest humor. Phichit, to no one’s surprise, was the first to sing ‘Happy Birthday.’

It was, Otabek realized, more people than he’d been with – not simply around – in nearly three years. His mind stuttered to a halt as the thought bloomed, and Yuri touched his elbow, grounding him before reality could begin to feel less real.

Sleep had, for once, come easily, but not gently.

_Yuri leaned against him, warm against Otabek’s shoulder as he dozed. The seats around them were empty, swaying with the passage of the train – no, plane, they were flying, he could feel the dizzying height beneath their feet. Otabek glanced over at Yuri, and a familiar jolt of sick horror froze him in place as Yuri slumped, body slack and eyes glazed, hot blood seeping into Otabek’s shirt, spreading spreading spreading –_

_\- and he was in the nameless Russian hostel, his phone ringing. He didn't pick up, but Yakov’s voice echoed through the room, trapping Otabek under its lead weight._

_“There’s been an accident at the rink.” The words pulled him under until he could taste saltwater, bitter and biting. “You should have been here.”_

Then the dream released its hold, leaving Otabek shaking and gasping for breath, tearing himself free of the last of its spiderweb claws.

 _Five things,_ Dr. Schäfer’s voice echoed in his mind. _Tell me about five things around you._

_One._

The glass of water on the bedside table was empty – he’d been too tired to bother filling it before bed.

_Two._

There was a cat curled up beside his leg. Mitya. The one who didn’t bite feet, but _would_ occasionally lick his toes until he was removed from the bed and locked outside.

_Three._

            The walls of the bedroom were yellow, their color so soft that Otabek had thought they were simply white for nearly a week, and then it had been so obvious he couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed.

            _Four._

            It was Christmas, a holiday he’d never celebrated, but Berlin had spent weeks transforming city squares into tiny markets. _Weihnachtsmarkt,_ they were called.

_Five._

            Yuri was beside him, asleep, the sharp point of his elbow pressing into Otabek’s side.

            Safe.

            His lungs filled with air instead of sand, the room finally solid around him instead of melting and twisting like flames. Otabek slipped out of bed, changed into joggers, and stepped out into the chilly air. That dream wasn’t the worst, but it meant he wouldn’t be sleeping again that day, wouldn’t be able to sit still until he’d sweated out the razor-wires of nervous energy corded through his muscles.

            It could never hurt as much as it had before, when he’d woken to the sick certainty that Yuri was gone, closed his eyes once more after being torn from sleep because no matter how badly the nightmare ended, it was the closest Otabek would ever come to seeing him again – but it still ripped him to shreds, broken glass pumped through his heart instead of blood, because he was _feeling._ Otabek hadn’t known how deeply the numbness had sunk into his mind, down to his bones, until it started to pull away, leaving raw nerves exposed and bleeding.

            The path through the woods was empty, the usual dog-walkers and joggers doubtlessly at home enjoying their holiday. He ran faster, stretching his muscles, away from curious eyes.

            Yuri said he didn’t dream anymore, and Otabek was glad – it meant Yuri wouldn’t have to remember him like that, with memories and fear tangled together into an inescapable net, waiting for him whenever he fell asleep, and no matter how far he pushed, hours into days, he couldn’t run from it forever.

            Yuri wouldn’t have to remember him at all, eventually.

            He stumbled, bracing himself against a tree, digging his fingernails into the rough bark.

            _I don’t want him to forget me._

Two years since he’d stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, hollow-eyed, and wondered how long there would be anyone to look back. It had scared him then, left him trembling and pale, leaning against the sink as his knees gave out, but after that it had been… nothing.

            The fear had retreated into acceptance, even as it had driven him away from his family, because if Otabek couldn’t give them an answer at least he could soften the blow. Some days, the worst days, it had almost been a relief – when he finally made a mistake that got him killed, maybe he’d only be losing years and not decades, not a _future._ In the slimmest possibility that he escaped his own bad decisions, it meant that he wouldn’t have to push through forever, bound to an existence that wasn’t a life.

            Acceptance, apathy; Otabek hadn’t bothered with a name for it, letting it slip from his mind. It didn’t matter. But it wasn’t that, he knew, as sharp stones at the edge of the path dug into his knees, rough wood scraped against his forehead.

            Otabek had been afraid for so long that he’d forgotten what it felt like to breathe – and now he remembered, remembered how to _want,_ how to hope, and the full force of terror hit him once more.

            _I want to stay._

He didn’t want to hurt Yuri again, force him to wait, no warning, no way to prepare – and no one to help him, because he wouldn’t talk to Viktor.

_I want to live._

            Like always, it didn’t matter what Otabek wanted.

* * *

          Viktor had thought of himself as a morning person, and after the abrupt change in his schedule, decided to go with the more apt term of _early riser._

            Although, more accurately, he didn’t sleep much at all – he didn’t need to, he didn’t want to, and it was amazing how much he could get done with so many extra hours in a day. Hours Viktor _needed,_ because Duolingo wouldn’t teach him to flirt in Japanese until he’d completed all the background units first.

            The computer chimed, informing him that his pronunciation was not close enough. Viktor told it to be quiet.

            Three loud knocks on the front door, a sixty second pause, two more taps. Otabek letting whoever might be inside know that he was going to open it, giving them ample time to tell him to keep the door closed or let them step out of the hallway, safely out of the way of any sunlight that might filter through. It had been Otabek who suggested the signal, surprising Viktor with the forethought until he realized that, from what he’d gleaned from their occasional mid-afternoon chats, such caution was the reason Otabek had survived on his own for so long.

            Viktor pushed away his laptop as the door closed, a twist of worry in his gut, the sudden certainty that something was wrong – he could hear Otabek’s breath hitching, as if his chest was fighting against each gulp of air, before he stepped around the corner.

            “Can I…“

            “Please,” Viktor said, gesturing to the armchair. He couldn’t help but remember the times Yuri had folded himself into that same seat as if he was trying to disappear, before asking a question he should never have had to consider.

            “I need- I need to ask a favor.”

            It took Otabek several minutes to find the right words; he spoke as carefully as he did everything else, handling the sentences as if they might shatter into daggers and slice into his skin at any moment.

            Yuri had asked if werewolves could become vampires. It had seemed like an innocent question, a safe question to answer with _no,_ because Viktor hadn’t been listening – or rather, he had, but when Yuri spoke, it was often the gaps and silences that held his meaning.

            “You don’t want to know?” Viktor couldn’t blame Otabek. After all, he didn’t want to know when he was going to die.

            “I don’t want to feel like I have a- an expiration date,” Otabek said, closing his eyes for a moment. “But Yura… I can’t trust myself not to hurt him again, I don’t- the only good decision I’ve made in years was looking for him, and I messed that up too. Sometimes I think it would have been better for him if I stayed away. I asked him not to find out because I- I was scared, and now… he’ll try to protect me, no matter what it does to him.”

            “What do you need me to do?” If it had been Yuri telling him this, Viktor might not have even hesitated before finding the nearest werewolves – and Yuri would have never forgiven him.

            “I can’t trust myself,” Otabek repeated. “I’m not strong enough, I’m too- but you can protect Yuri, you can see if it’s… what he needs.”

            _You’ll put Yuri first,_ Viktor heard.

            “Of course,” he said. Otabek was carrying too much weight, too much responsibility - and he was right, this wasn’t something Yuri could or should deal with himself.

            “I don’t want to do this to him,” whispered Otabek. “When I lost him, it… if I care about him, how can I make him feel that?”

            “You were alone,” Viktor said gently. “Yuri isn’t, and whatever happens, he won’t be.”

            “Thank you.”

            “Is there something I can do for you?” He wasn’t sure Otabek would, or truly could, ask for help for himself.

            “My family,” Otabek murmured, eventually. “I left because I knew they’d find out, and I couldn’t lose them like that, and that… I’d disappear, one day, and they’d never know what happened. I thought it would be easier for them if we weren’t- if we weren’t close.”

            “You’d like me to tell them if something happens.”

            “If you…”

            “Talk to the doctor. She can help you figure out what you’d want them to know.” Viktor let himself hope it wouldn’t be necessary, that this would give Otabek the freedom to speak to them – and, of course, that family was stronger than their humanity. That Otabek would have time to find the right words.

            “Try to get some rest,” Viktor said, standing up and touching Otabek’s shoulder. He’d started to sag back into the chair, eyes half-shut, as soon as Viktor had agreed, as if tension and fear had been the only forces keeping him upright. Otabek was so gentle with the world that he forgot to be careful with himself.

            Otabek nodded.

            “Thank you,” he said again. “And, um, happy birthday, again.”

* * *

            “If you don’t move your ass, I’m going to throw you out the window,” growled Yuri, gently shoving Otabek off the pile of laundry heaped on his bed. As if a switch had been thrown, a half-forgotten flame reignited, something had sparked back to life in Otabek overnight.

 _“Less to think about,_ ” Otabek had said, when he asked.

            “Beka, if you don’t let me put away my clothes I’m just going to walk around naked.”

            “Oh no,” Otabek replied, and – Yuri’s mouth almost dropped open – he _smirked._ “What a tragedy.”

            He rolled back onto the laundry pile.

            “I locked the cats out because of this, and I will lock you out too.”

            “If only I knew how to pick locks,” Otabek sighed. “Such a useful skill, one I wish I- _hey!”_

            Yuri picked him up off the bed, snickering at Otabek’s yelp of surprise. He understood, finally, why Mila insisted on bench-pressing him every chance she got – and he couldn’t help but notice that Otabek _definitely_ blushed, no matter how much he denied it.

            Unfortunately, he was now out of free hands to fold his clothes. Otabek, evidently realizing the same thing, grinned at him.

            “You know, Beka, you could just _help._ ” Yuri let him down to the floor, pulling Otabek back with one hand as he moved back towards the bed. Otabek let himself fall back, turning so they were face to face. “Then I’d actually be done faster.”

            “Or I could not do that,” Otabek replied, leaning into Yuri. “After all, you did pretend to be asleep when Viktor asked you to wash the dishes.”

            “I did _not-_ “ He tried to glare down at Otabek, who merely lifted an eyebrow.

            “So is this a staring contest now, or are you going to kiss me?”

            “That’s what you… great seduction technique there, Altin.”

            Yuri kissed him.

            The world had been skewed on its axis, and it tilted back into place. Songs described kisses as fire and electricity, but they never mentioned how sometimes it just felt _right,_ as if the chords of the universe hummed into harmony when their lips touched.

            They parted with a soft sigh, and Otabek traced Yuri’s cheek with his thumb, eyes warm. Yuri leaned into his hand.

            He would blame everything – the casual, comfortable touches, the cheek kisses, _everything –_ for what happened next, as he took in Otabek’s giddy, dazed smile.

            “That was it,” Yuri said, blinking slowly. “That was – we kissed.”

            “Yeah,” Otabek rested his head against Yuri’s shoulder. “I noticed.”

            “The first time _,_ ” Yuri groaned. “I _missed it._ ”

            “Uh, you definitely didn’t,” replied Otabek. “I don’t think that would have worked.”

            “I didn’t realize, I was distracted by- by _you,_ and your face, and- that didn’t count, we’re having a do-over.”

            The second attempt lasted all of three seconds before Otabek was laughing too hard to stand up straight.

            “Come on, Beka, take this seriously,” he whined, trying to hold back his own snort of laughter. “We have to try again.”

            “You know, we can just kiss more.” Otabek tipped his head. “Except _someone_ has very important laundry to fold.”

            “Shut the fuck up,” Yuri growled. “But… fangs?”

            “Supernatural healing powers,” Otabek pointed out. “Don’t worry. If you bite me, just don’t move, and we can try to stick in some jewelry before it closes.”

            “What the actual fuck, Altin.”

            For all the waiting, Yuri decided, he wouldn’t change a thing.


	31. Chapter 31

            Phichit coughed quietly and straightened his notebook as Yuuri spread his notes across the table in Viktor’s library, shuffling stacks of paper to clear a space for his laptop.

            “Vitya,” he said, ignoring Phichit as he added a handful of colored pens to the array of material, “could you go through and compare the original interview notes with the translations? The files you can work on are in the folder labeled _consent to share –_ don’t open any of the others, we haven’t gotten permission to let you read them yet.”

            “Um, of course.” Viktor scooted closer to the computer hesitantly, as if expecting it to nip at his fingers. “Shouldn’t be a problem. Which document is the actual interview?”

            Yuuri adjusted his glasses to hide the glint in his eyes. He wasn’t _enjoying_ this, because that would be wrong, but it might have been just a little bit satisfying to see the dawning horror as Viktor realized what a mess he’d made by throwing in Christophe Giacometti.

            “All of them.” He gestured at the screen. “The ones with _rec_ at the end of the name are the audio recordings of the interviews. Then you’ll have a word document with Phichit’s transcription of the German, as well as an initial translation to English. Every few lines should be marked with a time stamp, so you can cross-reference with the audio. There’s also a scan of my notes from the interview, but don’t bother with that – they’re mostly in Japanese because I don’t always have time to find the right words in English at the time. They’ve been added into the translation as annotations.

            “Actually, if you could edit those as you go too, that would be great.” Yuuri extracted a sheet of paper, creased with use until the folds were as soft as silk, and handed it to Viktor, whose smile was slightly too large. “These are the list of words we’re adding to the index. For example, if you see a reference to silver and we haven’t already tagged it, just highlight the sentence, hit this button and type the keyword. This way, we can pull up all mentions of any particular subject automatically for comparisons. And let me know if there are any other terms we should add.”

            “I’ll just… get started then,” Viktor said, glancing over the list and opening the first file. “What does _check later_ mean?”

            Phichit spoke up from behind his own tidy stack of books. “That means it conflicts with something Chris said. We’re going to go over _that_ again when you’re done with the translations.”

            “I am so sorry,” muttered Viktor, burying his face in his hands. Yuuri patted the top of his head, trying to stay professional as he marveled at the surprisingly fluffy softness of Viktor’s hair.

            “Not yet, you’re not,” Phichit interjected, smirking, and Yuuri stifled a laugh as Viktor’s eyes widened – it was like watching someone be savaged by a hamster. “But you will be.”  

* * *

          Five hours later, they called for a break.

            Viktor rose with a groan, shaking the bright afterimage of the laptop screen from his eyes as he tried to remember exactly how he’d translated before online dictionaries came into existence. To his left, Phichit was taking selfies with one of the cats, having declared that he _“hated languages and was never going to use words ever again.”_

Meanwhile, Yuuri glanced between a spread of open books and his notepad, scribbling and scratching out the words again, frustrated but seemingly indefatigable.

            “How do we get him to stop?” whispered Viktor.

            “Let me know when you figure it out,” Phichit replied, sighing. “Actually, I have an idea. Hey, Yuuri! Otabek said he’ll cook something, we should help.”

            “Right, of course, let me just- wait, what?” Yuuri looked up, blinking slowly as if coming out of a trance, and Viktor decided that Yuuri’s face was just _unfair_ (but unfair in a very good way). “I didn’t think it was that late.”

            “We ate two hours ago, and now we’re going to call it a night because we don't all have the stamina of a Terminator. Besides,” he added, “I can read enough Japanese to know you’ve written the same list of questions at least six times and we won’t get any answers until we’ve talked to more people, and underlining them isn’t going to change that.”

            “Do you have any scheduled?” Viktor started reshelving the stacks of books. “I talked to a couple of acquaintances in Hamburg, and they seemed interested in arranging something.”

            “Um, no,” said Yuuri, glancing down at his notebook. “I decided not to do any more interviews until I’ve talked more with Yurio about some issues he brought up.”

            “Ah, right.” After further discussion (which, in all actuality, meant Viktor carefully offering a suggestion and Yuri rolling his eyes while pretending not to be relieved), they’d decided to hold off on that particular conversation until Yuri had a chance to meet with his therapist. Dr. Shäfer, however, was only booking emergency appointments until after New Years. “Well, I’m sure I can convince Ulrike to lend you some more books for now.”

            As they wandered out of the library and into the hall, Viktor felt the rising tension even before he heard Yuri’s harsh whisper, low and bitter.

            _“I told you what I think about it before, and just because you have a deep voice and say things like they make sense doesn’t mean that they actually do.”_

_“Yura, I’m sorry, it’s just… complicated.”_

_“Because you’re_ making _it complicated!”_

“Ah, Yuuri, Phichit, we left one of the cats in the library.” He took their elbows, ignoring the questioning looks tossed his way, and gently pushed them back out of the hallway. “Can you go grab her before she chews up your notes?”

            Viktor shut the door; the papers were safe from Calla, but Yuuri and Phichit would have their hands full for several minutes trying to catch the slippery little demon.

            In the kitchen, Yuri stood facing the closed window over the sink. He rubbed a hand across his face, as if he could scrub away evidence of every emotion except anger – because anger, to Yuri, would always be safe. Otabek turned an envelope over and over in his hands, worrying the edges, expression empty and shoulders hunched, trying to shrink in on himself.

            “Yuri. Come upstairs with me for a minute.”

            “I don’t feel like it,” Yuri snapped, winding his fingers through his hair. “We’re busy.”

            “No, you’re not,” said Viktor. “Otabek, please help Yuuri and Phichit catch the cat in the library. Yuri, _now._ ”

            Upstairs, Viktor pulled the door to his room shut, satisfied that there would be two layers of soundproofing between them and Otabek for at least several minutes.

            “What do you want?” Yuri’s eyes glittered like diamonds, hard and brittle.

            “Hold Myshónok for me, please. He needs his claws trimmed.” Viktor scooped the sleepy orange tabby from under the bed and handed the cat to Yuri, effectively pinning him in place – he wouldn’t be able to storm out, unwilling to startle the wobbly cat or leave claws half-clipped. “If you push Otabek, I have a feeling he’d do almost anything.”

            “Yeah?” Yuri scowled, gently holding one fluffy paw in place. “Then let me go back down, maybe he’ll talk to them.”

            “His family, you mean?” He held the clippers back as Yuri’s head jerked up. “We talked, yes, and Kazakh is similar enough to Russian that I could read the address on his letter.”

            “He thinks he can make them stop caring about him.” Yuri’s voice cracked. “Beka said he won’t leave, and I know he means it, but if he- if he decides I’d be better off, I don’t… he might do it. And he misses them so much, I can tell, if he just-“

            “Told them everything?” Viktor sighed. “Otabek can’t lie forever, Yura – I think I’ve just given a pretty good example of how that works out. Are you absolutely, completely sure that they’d all be okay with finding out he’s a werewolf, enough that you’d force him into it? Or, do you truly believe it’s worth asking him to deal with the consequences right now, if it doesn’t go well?”

            He watched as Yuri’s mouth twisted, _anger frustration fear guilt,_ emotions painted across his face like watercolors, waiting for them to settle into a decision.

            _You’ve watched me make this mistake so many times, thinking that good intentions justify making choices for someone else, and the hardest part is knowing it doesn’t always end badly._

            “I- _fuck._ ”

            “Exactly.” Viktor scratched Myshónok behind the ears. “You’re all done, big guy.”

            “I didn’t… shit. He should have told me to back off.” The cat, lowered gently to the floor, flopped out across Yuri’s feet. Yuri rubbed his belly with one toe. “He really would have, if I kept going, why the fuck-“

            _He doesn’t want to hurt you,_ Viktor almost said – but Yuri knew that already. Past that, all he could offer were half-baked guesses that skirted the edge of privacy. _Part of him thinks you’ll cut him out if he doesn’t._

“You need to talk to him about that,” he said instead. “When you’re _both_ calmer. And Yura… when we talked a couple of days ago, he told me the rest of it, too.”

            Yuri froze.

            “I didn’t try to find out. That’s his decision, and I understand it now, but I might not have listened if you told me. I’m sorry.” He studied Yuri’s face, watched the lines of ice crumble. “Otabek was worried you wouldn’t talk to anyone.”

            This time, Viktor wasn’t surprised when Yuri stepped forward and almost fell into him, stiff and clumsy with shock; he pulled Yuri into a tight hug, wishing he could promise that everything – _everyone_ \- would be okay.

            “He doesn’t fucking deserve this,” Yuri whispered, words muffled by Viktor’s shoulder. “And he’s just so- so _calm_ about it, like it doesn’t matter to him, he just wants to protect everyone else because that’s what Beka always does, and he said he doesn’t _know_ and it might be fine but he then he acts like- like he’s somehow sure it’s not even going to be years, he doesn’t even pay attention to anything that’s more than a couple days ahead, and I- I’m so fucking scared. At first I, it didn’t make sense, I thought the healing thing meant… but-“

            “I thought so too,” Viktor admitted. Everything, _everything_ had a price – an exchange, a favor, sunlight and silver. Magic was never lenient or forgiving. It took what it was owed, but _this_ seemed too steep a fee. Then again, magic didn’t care about a life, no matter how precious, any more than gravity cared about the fragility of glass. “I don’t know any more than you do, than he does, but… when you’ve been through what he has, thinking about the future can be harder than _not_ thinking about it, because for so long, everything kept getting worse.”

            _You hit rock bottom and grab a pickaxe,_ thought Viktor, _not sure if you’re digging a bomb shelter or a grave._ Always waiting for the impact, for the aftershock, for the other shoe to drop – even now he had blackout tarps stashed in every room, a reinforced shelter for a basement and years’ worth of sleepless days.

            Yuri straightened up, took a deep breath he didn’t need and raked his hair out of his face.

            “Fuck. Okay. I want to apologize before he has time to think too much.” Viktor could feel Yuri withdraw, overwhelmed, shrouding himself in a list of actions so he didn’t have to feel. “And then I, I want to go skating. By myself. But he’s going to be stressed so-“

            “I was going to watch a movie with Phichit and Yuuri. I’ll ask Otabek to join us,” said Viktor, sitting down on the corner of his bed. He didn’t want to be responsible, to ask questions that could never truly be answered, to remember that this was a decision he might – he even _hoped –_ he’d have to make himself someday. “Yura, you’ve… thought about this, yes? What it might mean.”

            _How it might end,_ he couldn’t say. But the green of Yuri’s eyes was backed by steel, and Viktor remembered that Yuri was a fighter, and he never fought blind.

            “After Beka told me, I made a list of everything that could happen, everything I was thinking.” A strategy Dr. Schäfer had encouraged nearly three years before, a way for Yuri to make his anxiety into a solid, steady object. “I… he makes me happy, and- and losing him scares me fucking shitless, but I can be okay without him, eventually.” Yuri’s voice was steady, and he didn’t make a move to wipe away the fresh tears that streaked down his pale face. “I want to be with him and we’re going to damn well enjoy it.”

            Viktor straightened up, tilted his head. “Sometimes, you sound older than me.”

            “That’s not hard,” retorted Yuri, letting out a watery snort of a laugh, but it was gentle, teasing, grateful.

            “So, the list-“

            “I burned it,” Yuri said quietly. “We’ll talk, we have talked, but I didn’t want him to find it by accident.”

            “I’m proud of you,” murmured Viktor, giving Yuri a soft smile. “Both of you.”

            “Don’t get sappy or I’ll throw up on your bed.”

            “I don’t think vampires can throw up-“

            “Fucking try me.”

* * *

          “So, if you don’t mind me asking, are you nocturnal now or what?”

            “Not really.” Otabek shrugged at Phichit’s questioning glance as they walked, avoiding the puddles of grey slush dotted along the sidewalk. “It doesn’t seem to matter much. How are you and Yuuri doing with the night thing?”

            Phichit laughed into his döner kebab.

            “Well, on one hand, jetlag wasn’t a problem,” he said. “On the other, we live on vitamin D supplements and caffeine, and I’ve already burned out one therapy lamp. Then again, Germany in winter, so no one else is doing much better."

            Tourists outnumbered Berliners in the half-empty Schöneberg streets, trickling from bus stops and wandering from store to store. Phichit had declared, during a lull in last night’s movie as the characters lounged in swimsuits on a tropical beach, that he needed to get out and see the sun, even if it was _‘the weather equivalent of English cooking.’_ Viktor laughed, Yuuri flatly refused to even consider waking up before sunset, and Otabek, half-distracted by thoughts of phone calls and tear-cracked goodbyes, shrugged. After all, it wasn’t likely that he would be asleep anyway.

            Now, at three in the afternoon, the sun was already dipping low on the horizon. Yuri would wake up in a few hours, spend a few minutes reviewing a section of his online German course, and eventually head to the ice rink with Viktor, where Otabek would meet them later. Life had, almost without him noticing, slipped into a comfortable routine.

            “It’s hard to believe we all ended up here,” Phichit continued, the cheerfulness of his voice layered with quiet consideration. “I thought I’d still be skating, to be honest.”

            “Yeah.” The word was almost an afterthought; Otabek couldn’t picture stepping in front of a crowd, baring his heart to the ice and his soul to the judges, but three years before, he couldn’t have imagined anything else. A silent understanding passed between them, tracing the different paths that led them to the same city, the same street, opposite sides of the strange little world of night.

            “My hip started giving me trouble a couple of years ago.” People tended to forget that Phichit, with his easy, innocent smile and playful manner, had fought for every inch of his success – more so than many others, as Thailand had no more resources for figure skating than Kazakhstan. “Surgery would have bought me another few seasons, if it went well, and even then I’d be looking at a hip replacement before I was thirty-five.”

 _Why didn’t you try?_ The question hung in the winter air. It was what they did, selling their bodies and souls for the chance at gold.

“I wouldn’t have thought twice before, but… after what happened, I decided I didn’t want to trade away that much of my life. I retired after the Grand Prix last year.”

“Yuri,” murmured Otabek. It always came back to Yuri, as if the threads of fate were wound through his fingers – sometimes, it wasn’t so hard to imagine that the world had rewritten itself, unwilling to let its golden boy slip away so soon. “Translation at Waseda?”

“I was thinking about working for the ISU as an interpreter, until I could get enough funding for my ice show, but then I met Yuuri and… well, he has a way of making you want things you never expected.” Phichit tossed the foil from his döner into the trash, glancing back at Otabek, grey eyes caught between curiosity and hesitation. “You ended up in Berlin, too.”

“You can ask,” said Otabek. Though they’d never been especially close, it was hard not to feel comfortable with Phichit, and even harder not to notice the long-neglected ache that longed for his old friends, his old life. “I might not answer.”

“When did you find out about Yuri?”

“About a week after you did,” replied Otabek with a wry smile. That pain had, after too many long years and several months of doubt that stretched into what felt like an eternal agonized uncertainty, finally begun to scab over. “I couldn’t believe it was really him.”

“Shit, okay,” said Phichit, eyebrows threatening to disappear into his hairline. “That explains a lot.”

“Not really, though.”

“No, not really,” agreed Phichit. “But you have that stoic unreadable look going on now. Let’s go eat copious amounts of garlic so you can brush your teeth before your vampire boyfriend wakes up, and I want to take photos while the light is still good.”

Otabek thought about kissing Yuri, smiled to himself, and passed on the garlic.

* * *

The clock ticked over to midnight.

“Happy New Year, Beshka.” Yuri grinned, and then winced as his eyes passed over Viktor and Yuuri being _Viktor-and-Yuuri_. He wrinkled his nose and pulled Otabek out of the living room to somewhere less nauseating, and where he wouldn’t be half-tempted to sneak glances to figure out how Viktor managed to avoid Tooth Incidents. “That’s a dumb tradition. People just want an excuse to be gross at parties.”

“It’s supposed to be lucky,” said Otabek, looping an arm around Yuri’s hips. “I can’t ask for more luck, but we _are_ kinda dumb, so…”

This time, kissing Otabek did feel like fireworks, the heat of his body burning against Yuri’s lips. Together, they were a phoenix, risen from the ashes against all odds.

Viktor’s voice followed them into the hallway, light and teasing and only slightly muffled by Yuuri’s face.

“Get a room, you two!”

“Vitya,” Yuuri chastised, “leave Yurio alone while they’re being gross.”

“Fuck you, old-“

“I left your present upstairs,” murmured Otabek, and he laughed as Yuri cut himself off mid-insult. “Then, do you want to go out?”

“I’ll call Grandpa first, it’s an hour later in Moscow so he'll be going to bed soon, but yeah. Get ready to hear several thousand drunk Germans singing YMCA. But presents, _now._ ”

Berlin welcomed the new year with a party that stretched from the Brandenburg Gate to the Victory Column. The thought of being around so many people, _normal_ people, lit frissons of anxiety in Yuri’s chest, but it was a chance to be a part of the world for the night instead of hovering at the edges, and Otabek’s eyes had gotten round and shiny when he read through the list of musicians.

“I was thinking about the last time we spent New Years together,” Otabek said softly, sliding a small box out from under the bed. “With your grandfather, in Moscow.”

Yuri unwrapped it, picking at the tape delicately, before giving in to impatience and ripping the silver and blue paper, dropping the lid of the box to the floor. Four tiny toy cats – two black, one orange, and a grey tuxedo - looked up at him with shining plastic eyes.

He dropped to the bed with a thump, not willing to divert mental energy to something as menial as keeping his legs under control, and removed the cats one by one, stroking the soft plush fur.

“I didn’t get one for Zoyenka.” Otabek’s voice was quiet, uncertain. “I didn’t know if you’d want-“

“They’re perfect, Beka. How the fuck long did it take you to find these, I…” Yuri pulled open the drawer of his bedside table, fingers searching for a familiar shape in the back. He held out a fifth cat, the black and white fur thin in spots and slightly stained with age. “I keep her in here because Mitya thinks she’s a toy for him. I have a full set now.”

“You still have it.” Otabek cradled the toy in his hands, holding it as gently as if were a relic from centuries past instead of three years ago. “I… _Yura._ ”

“I was holding it,” Yuri whispered. “Viktor kept it for me, until I woke up. I always wondered, but that was you, wasn’t it?”

Otabek nodded, sinking down next to Yuri.

“Thank you, Beka.” Yuri closed his eyes and leaned into Otabek for a moment, knowing that if he started to cry it would be a long time before he’d be able to stop. “I was thinking about that year too.”

A gift bag was taken out of the back of the closet, wads of tissue paper haphazardly poking out of the top.

“You left your bear, the one you brought to competitions. I, um, I might have stolen it from your apartment, and it ended up with some of my old stuff at Grandpa’s house. I asked him to send it here.”

“I brought the little one, the one you gave me,” Otabek said, hugging the bear to his chest. His grandmother had given it to him before he moved to the US, he’d told Yuri once, and it had always felt like a piece of home, of his family. “It’s in my bag downstairs. I- thank you, Yura.”

“I’m going to call Grandpa now.” Yuri kissed Otabek softly. “You don’t have to, but if you want to talk to him, he’d be happy to hear from you.”

“I’d like that. And tomorrow, I think… I want to talk to Mila.”

“Are you sure?” Yuri’s chest tightened. God, he wanted to stop dodging that conversation, to be able to have everyone he cared about together, but this was going to be complicated.

“Maybe I won’t be tomorrow, but yes. I’m sure. She should know I’m here.” Otabek sighed. “And I- I miss her, too. I want to try.”

“Tomorrow, okay?”

“Tomorrow.”


	32. Chapter 32

“This might not go well,” Otabek said quietly, tracing the whorls of the kitchen table with a fingertip. “I don’t want to drag you into it.”

“You’re not dragging me into anything, idiot.” Yuri’s fingers were curled around a cup of coffee – Otabek’s cup of coffee, specifically. “Besides, this is Mila. She’ll be happy to know that things are… okay.”

“Maybe.” Otabek sighed. “Can I have my-“

            Yuri narrowed his eyes and gripped the mug more firmly. “This is a hostage situation now, Beka. What’s going on?”

            It wasn’t a scowl, not quite, but Otabek shifted uncomfortably in the kitchen chair. Yuri had a right to know, but Otabek wasn’t sure he could have this conversation once, let alone twice. Especially not if Yuri was angry – and he would be furious, justified or not.

            “I’d rather talk about it with Mila first.”

            “Beka.”

            “I’m sorry.” Otabek looked away. “I’m not… I should tell you, but I- can we please just do this?”

            It was possible that Mila’s words had burned with pain and loss instead of the cold poison of belief, but that didn’t make them any less true.

            “Otabek.”

            Yuri scowled.

            Otabek flinched.

            “Shit,” breathed Yuri. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bully you into it, fuck. I… how can I help with this?”

            The pressure lifted; oxygen flowed back into the room, which had grown tight and airless.

            “I’ve only seen Mila once since I left,” Otabek said, choosing his words carefully. “It wasn’t on good terms. If she’s- I think it would be better for us to talk about it ourselves. If I ask you to- not to listen-“

            “… Okay,” Yuri grumbled, “I don’t like it but I’ll do it. And after this, we’re figuring out a way for you to tell me to back the fuck off.”

            “A conversation safeword.” Otabek lifted an eyebrow, amusement coloring his tone. “I like it.”

            “You didn’t have to call it that, now it’s weird.” Yuri picked up his cell phone, which had been lying facedown on the table, mildly accusing in its bright purple case. “Let’s do this?”

            Otabek’s lips were heavy with the weight of imagined conversations, so he nodded instead of trying to speak.

            It rang four times before Mila picked up, and Yuri put it on speakerphone.

            “Yura, communicating through something other than snapchats of his cats?” Mila’s voice, light and teasing, bubbled through the line. “Hell must be pretty chilly today.”

            “Shut up, баба, we skyped literally the other day _and_ I know you screenshot all my pictures.” Yuri grinned as he met Otabek’s eyes – _it’s just Mila,_ his face said. “You busy?”

            “Nope,” she said with a heavy sigh. “Partied too hard last night, and I’m trying to get my knee to chill the fuck out. What’s up?”

            “If you fucked up your knee again, hag, I’m gonna kick your ass. But, um. The thing that’s been going on that I wouldn’t tell you about?”

            “Spill, brat. I was about to fly to Berlin and make you talk, and I still might.”

            Otabek grimaced, imagining how that would have gone. However upset Mila might be, this was a better way. He’d finally made the right choice – even if it wasn’t easy, if it wasn’t perfect, he wasn’t going to fuck this up worse than he had already. Yuri, who’d been pacing around the table, stopped beside him and leaned against his shoulder.

            “Yura, out with it. You said it was good! Did you steal a tiger cub?” She giggled. “Are you dating someone, and if so, when are you gonna let me give them the shovel talk?”

            “Uh, yeah.” Otabek closed his eyes for a moment as Yuri ran his fingers absentmindedly through his undercut, answering the unspoken question with a slow nod. “But that’s not really- listen to me before you say anything. It’s Otabek. Everything that-“

            “Otabek.” Ice water flowed from her voice, into the room, through his veins.

            “Yes, it wasn’t-“

            “A _different_ Otabek?”

            “No, but he didn’t-“

            “Yura, sweetie, I want you to explain everything but you need to tell Viktor, you need to get _him_ out of there,” Mila said, every syllable a facsimile of composure. “Some people don’t deserve a second chance. Don’t let him-“

            Yuri growled under his breath as Otabek gripped the edge of the table, fighting back the suffocating fog. _Five things the coffee is getting cold it’s ten pm it’s-_

            “Mila, I told you to fucking listen to me! Viktor knows everything important, and what happened wasn’t-“

            “Viktor doesn’t know _him,_ Yura, please think about this. I don’t know what he’s told you, but you know better than this, you… oh.” Her tone changed, words falling through the air like daggers, slicing, cutting. “Otabek Altin.”

            The wolf told him not to walk into another fight.

            _Yuri’s arm around his shoulders the hum of the refrigerator-_

            “Mila,” he replied quietly. “I want to talk.”

“I do too,” she hissed. “If you had the slightest shred of decency, you would have left Yura alone after the shit you pulled. You’re using him, and whatever lies you’ve told, he’s going to realize it soon. And for his sake, I hope you leave before he does.”

“I-“ He stopped. Yuri and Viktor had given him so much, without hesitation, and he’d paid them back only in stress and heartache.

“Mila,” interrupted Yuri with a snarl, “I’m not going to let you talk to my boyfriend like that. I asked you to listen to me, and if you did, you’d understand.”

One second.

Two.

A minute of silence, followed by a heavy sigh.

“Yura, I can’t say anything to change your mind, can I?”

“Call me back when you’re not going to try to,” Yuri said, voice rising as he met her ice with fire. “I’m not a child, I’m not an idiot, and Beka isn’t- he didn’t-”

“And _Beka_ can’t speak up for himself?”

Otabek barely let a trickle of breath past his lips as he murmured, too low for any human ears to hear, “Let me talk to her.”

“I promised I would leave, but she’s not going to listen,” Yuri muttered. “She’s gonna use you as a punching bag and hang up, and I’m already pissed off. Please wait, Beka.”

Her anger had held for over two years; another few days wouldn’t change anything.

“I’ll listen to whatever you have to say,” he said into the phone. “I’m not going to make excuses. But I want you to hear what I didn’t say before.”

“And you think that will change what you _did_?” Mila scoffed.

“Beka…” whispered Yuri, and Otabek let himself nod. “Mila, you can talk to him after you listen to me. Don’t call back before tomorrow night, because I don’t want to deal with you right now.”

He hung up and sat down heavily next to Otabek, head dropping onto folded arms.

“Fuck,” he growled. “I thought she’d- _fuck._ ”

“She’s worried,” Otabek said. She had reason to be, after all. “That was better than I expected.”

“That was _better?_ ” Yuri gaped at him. “How the hell… but I know. She’s- I understand why she said that, I mean, _I_ said all that to you, I wish you didn’t have to hear it but I can’t blame her. We didn’t know about your phone, about you, it was just- that’s not why I’m pissed off.” He thumped his forehead against the table, and Otabek laid a hand on the top of Yuri’s head. It seemed unlikely that vampires could give themselves concussions on furniture, but if anyone could manage, it would be Yuri. “She won’t stop treating me like I’m some helpless little kid who can’t make his own decisions, and whenever I mess up, it’s like- like she can’t admit that I fuck up, nothing can be my fault. And yeah, everyone does that to me now, Viktor does it, you do it, but you _listen_ when I call you on it and she acts like I’m just a baby throwing a tantrum.”

“My family does- did that too,” murmured Otabek. He ached for their closeness the moment he stepped away, but when they were together, the secrets and worry were smothering. “Aika especially. She was trying to help, but it felt like I couldn’t breathe.” He sighed. “I didn’t want you to have to take a side.”

“I fucking didn’t, I said there wouldn’t be any talking until everyone could be civil, and she had a problem with that.” Yuri turned his head, peering up at Otabek with one cheek pressed against the tabletop. “Are you okay?”

“I… yeah. Nothing is on fire.” Yet, at least. He wasn’t exactly happy with how it had gone, but shaking, pounding throb of anxiety had retreated to a safe distance. In the end, Mila didn’t, _couldn’t,_ say anything that he hadn’t thought a thousand times. “So, I’m your boyfriend?”

Yuri shot upright. “I mean, yeah? I guess we hadn’t- if you want to be.”

“I like the sound of that.” Otabek grinned and leaned forward, brushing a strand of hair from Yuri’s face. “But-“

“Beka, if you make another bestiality joke, I’m locking you in the basement.”

“Okay. I’ll bite my tongue, then.” He smirked. “Or you can do that for me.”

“Why,” Yuri moaned. “Why are you like this?”

* * *

Mila, always a protective older sister and never just a friend, didn’t let the matter rest there. She didn’t try to talk to Yuri the next night. Instead, she called Viktor and Chris, letting the sweet poison of concern seep into the air, but Yuri had anticipated that and she was gently but firmly rebuffed.

It didn’t stop there.

“I can’t believe she called Grandpa,” Yuri hissed, clenching his fists as his temper seethed and roiled beneath his skin. She’d worried him, and Yuri heard the quiet concern in his grandfather’s voice when he answered his phone. “She had no fucking right to scare him like that.”

Across the table, Viktor sighed heavily and pushed a cup of tea towards Otabek, whose face had gone ashen with stress, his previous relief shaken and crumbled into rubble. He’d apparently decided sometime in the past week that Otabek’s caffeine intake was too high, and had come home one night with three tea samplers and several jars of jam. Yuri wasn’t sure that adding several cups of tea on top of Otabek’s daily vat of coffee was accomplishing much, but Otabek didn’t seem to mind.

“Can I do anything to help?”

“Remind her that she’s supposed to be my friend, not a damn rabid guard dog,” he grumbled. “Grandpa trusts us, she just freaked him out.”

Nikolai, at least, knew that Yuri could learn from experience and would at least try not to throw himself directly into the fire again, and, after watching his country fall to pieces around him and be rebuilt from the ashes, understood that good intentions didn’t mean no one would get hurt.

They probably should have waited until the day _after_ their appointments with Dr. Schäfer instead of throwing themselves into it the day before – but at least now there was something he felt like he could do, instead of sitting and waiting for his temper to boil over.

“Oi, Viktor,” Yuri said. “Call Katsudon and tell him to get his ass over here in a couple of hours. Phichit, too. I’ll even use small words so they understand.”

Viktor tipped his head. “… Katsudon?”

“That food your boy toy wouldn’t shut up about?” Yuri rolled his eyes. “Pretty sure it’s his damn kink or something, the way he went on about it.”

“I’ll say around three o’clock?”

“Sure, whatever.” He glanced at Otabek, who was resting his forehead against the mug propped in his hands. “Beka, I don’t think you can absorb caffeine by osmosis or whatever.”

“I can try,” mumbled Otabek as Viktor left the kitchen and went upstairs to make the phone call; as soon as they heard the bedroom door close, Otabek stood and dumped his tea in the sink.

Yuri snorted. “That bad?”

“It tastes like soap,” sighed Otabek, grimacing. “It was really nice of him, but…”  

Mila loved fancy tea – the more herbs, the better, in her opinion, and Yuri was fairly certain that it was half because she could use the leaves for spells in a pinch. He scowled as he stuffed the box of teabags into the back of the freezer.

“Viktor won’t be able to smell them once they’re frozen unless he opens the door,” explained Yuri. “He’ll have forgotten it exists by the time he’s done talking to Katsudon. If you keep drinking it, he’s gonna think you love it and buy another box every day and you’ll never escape.”

“I could just say thanks but no thanks,” said Otabek. “And it’s not _awful._ ”

“Yeah, but you weren’t _going_ to, you were gonna be all polite and shit, even though it’s most definitely awful. I’ll give it to Chris later, he’ll put anything in his mouth.”

Otabek’s lip curled into an absentminded smile, but his eyes were unfocused and Yuri knew he wasn’t actually listening. The call from Nikolai had thrown them all off-kilter, and Otabek was still struggling to regain his balance.

“Beka?”

“I really don’t want to deal with this right now,” Otabek replied finally. “I’m glad I’m- we’re- trying, but Mila is… intense, and I’m remembering a lot of things that I’d rather not.”

“I turned my phone off. I’m too pissed off to talk to her tonight,” Yuri admitted. “Do you want to sleep? I’m going to go over what I want to tell the Dream Team, so I don’t end up screaming at them. Again.”

“I was-“ Otabek bit his lip. “I get it if you’re not comfortable with the wolf, especially since- you know. But I… it helps to take a break.”

“You want to be a wolf for a while?”

“Only if it won’t bother you,” he said quietly. “But I- I’m as much wolf as human now, maybe more, and I don’t want to fight that anymore.”

“Oh.” It seemed like two years instead of two months since Otabek had appeared in the dark alley, his body stretching and twisting and flickering between one form and another, and the fear and horror that had blossomed in Yuri’s chest was abstract, as if it belonged to another person, another life. “Go for it, I guess?”

“Are you sure?” Otabek’s forehead creased into a small, worried frown. “It- we didn’t make a great first impression.”

“I’m not afraid of you, idiot,” replied Yuri. “I want to meet you as a wolf, you’ve been holding out on me. What do I need to know?”

“I won’t be able to turn back for a few hours. I’ve tried right away before, it’s too much, I ended up passing out for a few hours.” He tipped his head, thinking. “I’m more _me_ when I decide to change, not like with the moon, or when I… freak out. I should understand what you say, but different things are important, so I don’t know if the wolf will really get it.

“Are you-“ Yuri tried not to giggle, with marginal success. “Are you fine with cats? Should I put them in Viktor’s room for a while?”

“The cats are fine,” said Otabek, letting out a soft huff of laughter. “They’re… I can’t believe I’m saying this, the wolf just thinks they’re part of your pack, but I might- I might get anxious if Mitya and Zoyenka start bickering again.”

“Oh my god, Beka, you’re actually more ridiculous than I thought you were. What about Yuuri and Phichit, do you want me to tell them it’s you, or- shit, Viktor said Yuuri is a dog person _and_ he’s an idiot, maybe you’ll want us to stay out of your way because he’ll definitely try to pet you-“ Yuri paused. “Wait, can _I_ pet you? Is that, like, rude or whatever?”

“You pet me anyway, Yura,” Otabek replied, lifting an eyebrow. It was true, but Yuri refused to be ashamed of his totally normal, understandable fascination (it _wasn’t_ an obsession, no matter what anyone said) with Otabek’s undercut. “Go ahead and tell them. I’ll keep my distance.”

Shit, Yuri should have thought about that, about how Phichit and Yuuri were fragile, human, and clueless.

“I have to be careful around normal people. They- I- I bit someone once, I didn’t mean to, but I didn’t want to be around humans for a long time after that.” He looked away as a spark of shock flickered through Otabek’s eyes. He hoped Otabek wasn’t remembering the wolf who changed his life in another stupid, senseless accident. “Turns out vampires are kind of known for that.”

“Instincts, huh?” Otabek flashed him a wry, humorless smile. “I won’t bite them, but people aren’t comfortable around me. Not when they know I’m… contagious.”

“It’s up to you, but someone’s gotta be pretty damn stupid to be afraid of werewolves and not vampires, so they can go fuck themselves.” Yuri scowled and looked away. _A lot of people don’t trust werewolves,_ Viktor had told him. “The guy I- he was fine. Viktor was there.”

“You didn’t mean to bite him,” Otabek said gently. “Yura, I’m not going to think of you any differently because of an accident.”

“I know.” _But I do. I have to be careful,_ Yuri thought, _because next time, it would be my fault._ “So do you wanna, um…” He gestured vaguely.

“Meet me outside in fifteen minutes? It takes the wolf a while to figure out what’s going on.” Otabek left his wallet and phone on the kitchen table. Yuri glanced at the clock, marking a quarter hour to the nearest second.

He didn’t think that Russian, English, or German had the appropriate words to describe whatever it was he was feeling - well, German probably did, but the moment would be over by the time he finished saying it. Excitement, fizzing sparklers of nervousness, a surreal fog permeating the room because holy _fuck,_ his boyfriend actually turned into a wolf, and there was a vast difference between knowing that and seeing it (Yuri didn’t count the first time, which felt more like a fever dream than a memory).

The winter air brushed against Yuri’s skin as he stepped outside, but it was a soft touch instead of a nagging, stabbing reminder of imagined ice biting into his shoulders. The tang of hot metal and lightning, something he’d come to associate with Otabek to the point he was sure that every thunderstorm would carry with it a sense of home, was heavy on the chilly breeze.

Yuri heard Otabek before he saw him step out from the woods behind the house, noted the subtle changes in the beat of his heart, the timber of his breaths. The wolf paused at the edge of the trees, watching Yuri as he came closer. Yuri could imagine what his own heartbeat would feel like if he had one, pounding and hammering in his chest as if it was trying to escape, the cage of his ribs too small and tight for its urgent dance.

“Hey.” He took in the thick fur, longer across Otabek’s shoulders and chest, the soft gradient of grey and brown, the golden-yellow of his eyes. They stood next to each other for a moment, and Yuri let his fingers brush against the silky fur. Otabek huffed quietly, a greeting and an affirmation. “That’s metal as fuck, Beka.”

* * *

**YP:** heads up otabek is otawolf tonight

 **YP:** oh beka said you should probs tell katsudon about the werewolf thing

 **YP:** btw dont text me im turning my phone off for the night

 

Phichit stared at the screen for a moment, letting the instant noodles cool and slip from the chopsticks, slithering back into the microwavable cup. Yuri Plisetsky, god of chaos, had struck again – it hadn’t been too difficult to accept that Otabek was a werewolf, after nearly three years of friendship and collaboration with Yuuri “everything you know about the world is a lie” Katsuki, but surely there had to be rules about how you were supposed to share that information.

“Yuuri, did you know werewolves are a thing?”

“Hmm?” Yuuri looked up from his laptop. “Werewolves, yeah. I talked to a family in Nagoya during preliminary research, trying to learn more about an information campaign from a few years ago. Whether it was possible to distribute literature within magical communities without involving too many humans. That’s how-“

Phichit cut him off.

“Babe, you’re rambling. I don’t think Yuri’s going to bite, he just… yells a lot sometimes.”

“I know, I know,” said Yuuri with a sigh. “Anyway, werewolves?”

“Right yeah. Um, Otabek asked Yuri to tell me to tell you that he is one, I guess because he’s going to be… extra wolf-ish tonight?” He assumed that was what Yuri had meant, at least. “I can’t keep up with kids these days.”

Yuuri almost knocked his cup of tea off the table, catching it at the last second as it teetered towards the edge.

“What is it with figure skaters and supernatural beings? I know there’s a lot more magic than anyone really expects, but this is statistically improbable.”

“It _is_ a sport where we strap knives to our feet and retire by the time we’re thirty,” said Phichit. “And your sample is a bit biased. Besides, you went into ballet, and your teacher was literally an immortal tree spirit, so glass houses and all.”

“Fair point,” Yuuri conceded. “Okay, cool. Uh, basic rules, talk to him like usual, don’t ignore him or talk to Yuri like he’s an interpreter, but try not to ask questions that need more than a yes or no answer.”

“Dentist etiquette then.”

“I mean, don’t stick your fingers in his mouth, but yeah.”

“Okay, that’s… oh.” This is what he gets for being friends with the personification of mayhem, Phichit thought. “Yuuri, I’m allergic to dogs.”


	33. Chapter 33

            Yuuri took hold of Phichit’s elbow to stop him from falling over as the door opened.

            “The fuck is wrong with you?” Yurio stepped to the side to let them in, giving Phichit a curious once-over as he passed. “You shouldn’t have come over if you’re sick, I don’t want you leaking on the furniture.”

            “’m fine,” mumbled Phichit. “Could use some coffee.”

            “He’s on drugs,” Yuuri explained. They’d neglected to consider that the muscle relaxant Phichit took for his hip when it was especially sore would interact with the allergy medicine, leaving his eternally-perky friend more or less stoned out of his mind. Very professional, and absolutely something their advisors would never, _ever_ hear about. “It’s fine, he should be over it soon.”

            “Sure,” Yurio muttered, skeptical. “There’s coffee stuff in the kitchen, I don’t have a fucking clue how it works.”

            “He doesn’t need any more caffeine,” Yuuri replied, ignoring Phichit’s quiet protests. “We really appreciate you taking time for this, Yuri.”

            “Yeah, whatever. You can keep standing around in the hall like idiots if you feel like it, I’m gonna go sit down.”

            That was probably as close as they were going to get to an invitation, Yuuri thought, following Yurio into the living room. Phichit trailed behind them, shaking his head in an attempt to clear away the grogginess. It didn’t help much, judging by the heaviness of his half-lidded eyes.

            Yurio was already curled up on the couch, feet tucked under himself as he leaned against a very, _very_ large wolf that was stretched out across the sofa. The part of Yuuri’s brain that pointed out every doglike creature in the vicinity yelped and stuttered, running back through the twists and turns and tweaks of evolution before quickly deciding that this was most definitely not a dog. His conscious mind clamped down on that train of thought, but agreed that no, petting was not appropriate.

            Whatever he’d told Phichit about how to be polite, it was different in person as opposed to over Skype.

            “Hey, Otabek,” Yuuri said, realizing that both Otabek and Yurio, whose arm was looped protectively around the furry shoulders, had most certainly heard the tiny catch in his breath. “Sorry for jumping.”

            Phichit, blinking as if he’d finally noticed what was happening, merely waved a greeting, too drowsy to otherwise react.

            Otabek flicked an ear in what was, somehow, unmistakably a shrug. It was about as verbose a response as Yuuri would expect from him in any form, based on their limited interactions so far.

            “Beka’s staying,” stated Yurio, eyes glinting as he challenged them to object. “Viktor is in his room watching shitty Italian soap operas because he’ll get upset if I yell at you.”

            Yuuri nodded his agreement. For all his sharp edges and snapped insults, Yurio didn’t make him nervous anymore – some sort of sixth sense had picked up a wire of tension running through the boy, a cousin to the prickles of anxiety that had cloaked Yuuri like a second skin for as long as he could remember. There could be no doubt that Yurio would fight back as hard as necessary if he was pushed, but first and foremost he was – Yuuri mentally backtracked, because some saying were a bit _too_ topical – all bark and no bite.

            “I want to make sure that Phichit and I are on the same page as you,” he said as he sat down in one of the armchairs, flushing with embarrassment and more than a dash of guilt. Yuuri glanced at Phichit, who was plucking at the hem of his jacket and tapping his foot in an effort to stay awake, supremely unhelpful. “What you said about making you feel like- like subjects and not people.”

            Yuri didn’t answer for a few seconds; he seemed to be arguing with himself, letting one set of words and then another rise to his lips before pushing them back down, unsatisfied.

            “You didn’t mean to and you feel bad about it, and now you want to apologize so I can tell you I was overreacting, and then you can go out and feel good about yourself and your savior complex,” he replied finally, voice flat. He folded and unfolded a sheet of paper, crumpling the corners and worrying the edges with pale fingers. Otabek made a soft noise, somewhere between a cough and sigh, yellow-gold eyes flicking up to Yurio.

            “We’re trying _not_ to be assholes,” interjected Phichit. It was blunter than usual, but some of the flint melted from Yurio’s face.

            “Right, basically that,” agreed Yuuri. “We want to avoid making anyone feel like that.”

            “So, you’re _not_ going to apologize.”

            Yuuri stuttered, Yurio smirked, and Phichit snorted.

            Then he sneezed.

            “Anyway,” Yuuri continued hurriedly, speaking over the following round of sniffles as Phichit blushed scarlet and slid farther down in his seat, sinking under the weight of two pairs of startled eyes, “We were hoping you’d be okay with helping us with that, and we can do a proper apology when we… um, I guess when we-“

            “Understand what you’re apologizing for?” Yurio rolled his eyes, but he didn’t seem upset as he unfolded the scrap of paper once more, smoothing it out against his knee. “I have a list. You, stop talking. You-“ he gestured at Phichit- “I’d say don’t drool on the chair but that’s where Viktor sits so I really don't give a shit. And _you,_ Beka, stop laughing at me, if you made lists you wouldn’t have forgotten to buy milk four trips in a row, so just shut the fuck up.”

            Otabek, who so far as Yuuri could tell hadn’t made a sound, heaved a put-upon sigh and stretched his legs. Yurio grumbled something inaudible that was probably both Russian and vulgar under his breath, but judging by Otabek’s innocent head tilt, it likely boiled down to _you did that on purpose._

            “First of all, that bullshit where you act like you can either talk to us or us-the-vampires, because we’re just going to be normal if you don’t bring it up? Newsflash, we’re vampires _all the time_ and we don’t get to forget about it, and you obviously can’t either, but once you get onto the vampire thing it’s like everything else disappears.” He talked quickly, spitting the words out as if they’d burn him if they rested on his lips for more than a split second. Yuuri leaned forward, struggling slightly to understand as Yurio’s accent thickened. “Woo, I’m the miraculous walking dead boy, so you have to be super nice and feel sorry for me, so I’m never sure what you actually think, and guess what, it’s hard to not think about stuff when you’re constantly avoiding the subject really fucking loudly.”

            He hadn’t been exaggerating with regards to the list, Yuuri realized, dragging his eyebrows down from his hairline, but he didn’t try to interrupt. This time, Yurio wasn’t flinging verbal daggers, trying to land a hit so they’d finally have to listen to him.

            He was a skater – a prodigy, from what Yuuri had gleaned, one of the rising stars who was always pushed _further harder do better_ be _better._ He’d known a few dancers, children who had barely outgrown their first pair of shoes, already pushed and prodded, honed to fit into the strict borders of flawlessness. No one – no one with _power,_ anyway – had listened to them, either.

            Pretty little dolls, all dressed up, ready to be poised and played with and tossed away once the cracks began to show.

            Yurio kept talking.

            Yuuri and Phichit (as best he could while discreetly wiping at his watery eyes) listened.

* * *

            The _ping_ of Viktor’s phone drew him away from his computer screen, upon which Francesco was fervently confessing his love for Sofia as he kneeled on a picturesque beach at sunset. Or at least Viktor assumed that was what was happening, except that he’d thought Sofia had just proposed to the young man ten minutes ago so the whole thing seemed a bit redundant. Subtitles would probably have helped, but that would have been cheating.

            Viktor paused the show, absentmindedly pulling up a summary (identical twins, apparently, and no one seemed quite sure whether Sofia knew about that or not) as he plucked his phone off his pillow to check his email.

 

_Dear Mr. Nikiforov,_

_In spite of the tragic nature of your missive, I am delighted to offer my assistance in this matter._

_The phenomenon your friend described could be attributed to several creatures – or, perhaps, a more accurate term is_ beings, _as in several cases neither the biological nor subjective definitions of life could be said to encompass their existence._

 _Although very little reliable information is available for reasons that will soon become unfortunately clear, the candidates that best fit what details that were provided are most commonly known as_ celeste, _though a moniker that translates roughly to_ ghost-siren _is more often heard in Scandinavian regions. While often misidentified as rusalki, there are in fact very few similarities between the two and the association primarily rises from a confusion regarding post-nineteenth- century Slavic lore and a lack of nuance as to regional variation. However, I digress; your question will not be answered if I allow myself to lecture you on the topics of my personal interest._

_Celeste can perhaps be best described as a non-corporeal parasite endemic to saltwater. Their migration and survival, insofar as it can be called, is purely dependent on humans…_

            Viktor skimmed the rest of the passage, the Italian twins and their shared love interest completely forgotten as he read. When Otabek brought up the topic on one of the many sleepless afternoons they met in the library, insomnia seeking company, he’d felt a sick lurch of understanding as to why Otabek had reacted so poorly to Yuri at first.

            It was the sort of thing most people would like to forget, not pursue – Viktor had said as much to Otabek, curious but not disapproving.

 _I tried,_ Otabek had replied. _It didn’t work._

            He returned to the message.

 

_As to the second matter, I have only heard of three confirmed bites despite numerous rumors. Of those, one was voluntary, one was a matter of self-defense, and the third nothing more or less than an unfortunate accident. This is, as I’m sure you’re aware, a rate astronomically lower than incidents related to vampires, although the estimated number of werewolves is vastly greater. While it is possible that this is due to the less dramatic nature of the event (after all, most people have never encountered a wolf in person, and are likely to identify even a werewolf as merely a domestic dog), or the fact that, with proper support and education, the individual can maintain what appears to outsiders to be a ‘normal’ life, it is fairly safe to assume that werewolf bites and the resulting transformation is a relatively rare occurrence._

_However, let me return to our main topic of discussion. Once again, I urge the young man with whom you spoke to contact me without hesitation if he has any further questions or information regarding this or similar incidents. I have taken the liberty of reporting this sighting to acquaintances of mine in the Malmö area, despite the relatively low likelihood of a reappearance of the (presumed) celeste._

_Sincerely,_

_Dr. Shevchenko_

_P.S. I surmise, from your conjectures, that you have also dedicated much of your time to a study of this strange little world we live in. Though of course I understand the difficulties posed by traveling, please do let me know if you and your family find yourselves near Odessa._

            Viktor typed out a quick but effusive note of thanks in reply and flicked back to the soap opera, occupying the surface of his thoughts while deeper concerns churned and evolved underneath.

            It would be necessary to wait until Otabek found himself back on two legs to bring up the subject. While Viktor had no doubt that Otabek was thoroughly capable of understanding him, there were quite a few decisions to be made in terms of what he wanted to do with the information. It might be enough that _someone_ knew. Viktor certainly hoped that Otabek would be slightly less blunt than Yuri and refrain from throwing himself directly into the middle of it.

            And then there was the question of new werewolves. That hadn’t been something Otabek had asked, and it began to impinge on even Viktor’s rather flexible boundaries – although, on the other hand, surely he’d had enough experience about the hazards of keeping secrets. He’d mention it, and Otabek could view that information as he wished.

            On screen, Sofia rejected Francesco, who shook his fist at the setting sun, a single tear running down his bronzed cheek and falling into the ocean waves that lapped at his feet. It was the same saltwater that carried ships from shore to shore, that held things he could have happily gone many lives not knowing about.

            It really took away from Francesco’s moment of agony. However, Sofia thought she was turning down the suave but callous Angelo, which Viktor assumed they’d sort out in the next episode or ten.

            Viktor sent Dr. Shevchenko a friend request on Facebook, browsing through her profile as he waited for the group downstairs to put an end to his banishment.

            Viktor spent the next eternity watching both Angelo and Francesco declare their more-or-less sincere love with increasingly dramatic gestures while dangling one of the ubiquitous cat toys off the side of the bed for Myshónok to bat at clumsily.

            All in all, it was an acceptably boring ten minutes before he heard a soft knock.

            “I came up to say hi,” said Yuuri as Viktor opened the door. “I knew you’d pout at me if I didn’t.”

            “I wouldn’t _pout,”_ protested Viktor, pouting. “I would be heartbroken. Devastated. Emotionally destroyed, like poor Francesco, cruelly tossed aside to roam the halls weeping for eternity.”

            “What?”

            “Hi,” replied Viktor, kissing him in lieu of answering. “Everything go okay? Are you staying for a while?”

            “Yeah. I understand everything a lot better now, but it’s a lot to think about.” Yuuri sighed, then yawned, glancing up at Viktor with a soft pink flush spread across his nose and cheeks. “I have to take Phichit back to the apartment. I’m afraid he’ll fall asleep on the train again.”

            Viktor offered Yuuri his arm, escorting him back down the stairs. Yuri and Otabek (who was only marginally more silent as a wolf) met them in the hallway along with Phichit, whose reddened eyes and slightly swollen nose told their own story.

            “I’m fine,” he muttered blearily in response to Viktor’s concerned glance. “Just made of mucus and exhaustion today.”

            “He’s pretending he’s not allergic to Otabek and stoned out of his mind on medicine that apparently isn’t doing shit,” Yuri explained, snickering, as Otabek whined quietly and looked at him reproachfully.

            Phichit looked horrified. Evidently, Yuri hadn’t felt the need to bring that up earlier, content to let him suffer in sniffling silence.

            “Right,” said Viktor, fighting back a grin. “You two want a lift home?”

* * *

          Talking to Katsudon and Phichit had been a relief, siphoning off the crackling tension that had been building inside him since the phone call with Mila. Writing his thoughts down as Dr. Schäfer poked and prodded at his mind with careful questions, forcing his shapeless anger into a cage he hadn’t realized it had sprung from was in itself an anchor of control he’d been subconsciously reaching towards for months.

            It made Viktor happy, too, assuaging some of the guilt that still washed over him for the weeks of lies and subterfuge – something that, Yuri informed his traitorous temper, was _not_ going to happen again, no matter what.

            “We need to start going over shit so we all know what the fuck is going on,” he informed Viktor.

            Viktor _beamed._

            “Family meetings? That’s a _great_ idea,” he exclaimed, reaching out to ruffle Yuri’s hair. Yuri sidestepped halfheartedly, completely failing to avoid the affectionate touch. “How about Mondays? Oh, wait, that’s not a good day, you’ll both be too tired, right? Maybe-“

            “Shut up, don't go overboard,” Yuri groaned. “Um. I think Wednesdays are good. Beka?”

            Otabek, still in wolf form, was curled up on the couch again in a pile of paws and tail, snorted. He opened one eye, reminding Yuri that he couldn’t keep track of anything even when time, a purely human construct, wasn’t more or less meaningless.

“We’ll say Wednesday, and see how it works out,” Viktor said. “Do you two have plans for the night?”

            This was normal now, Yuri thought, watching Otabek shift positions and fall off the sofa. It wasn’t the normal he’d ever expected, but it worked.

            This was a position he spent some time reconsidering when Otabek, in his infinite wisdom and wolf-altered instincts, decided that the only acceptable place to sleep was directly on top of Yuri.

            “Asshole,” he muttered, scratching the top of Otabek’s head. Otabek huffed a warm breath into his ear without waking up. “You’d better not drool, you big lug.”

* * *

**MB:** yura, im sorry for how i reacted before

 **YP:** good for you.

 **MB:** i shouldnt have called your grandpa

 **MB:** i’ve apologized to him

 **YP:** okay.

 **MB:** look, i know you’re pissed at me, and i fucked up, because i was really worried about you. i want to try again.

 **MB:** can i visit you? this is a big thing. and i want to be able to see that youre ok.

 **YP:** europeans are in like a week, i’m fine

 **MB:** im not competing

 **YP:** the fuck?

 **MB:** its too close to the olympics. this is my last shot, i’m not risking it

 **MB:** so?

 **YP:** i’ll think about it

 **YP:** if you pull that shit again you’ll be getting right the fuck back on that plane

 **MB:** <3 xoxo

 

:: :: ::

 

            Changing shapes was like waking up. For a few moments after shaking off the bone-deep ache and stretch of the transformation, Otabek felt free, caught up in a weightless euphoria.

            It never lasted. By the time he stepped out of the shower it was a fight to lift his head, to brush his teeth instead of melting onto the tiled bathroom floor.

            Yuri was sitting at his desk, one foot propped on his bed, the other leg folded against his chest as he watched a show on his laptop. When Otabek walked in, he untangled his limbs and leaned back in his chair, pulling out one earbud.

            “Hey,” Yuri said, smiling – Otabek never stopped noticing the graceful curve of his fangs, but at some point over the past two months, they’d become as much a part of his Yuri as blond hair and garish cat prints were.

            “Two days?” The wolf didn’t care about when things happened, or how long they took, but Otabek was determined not to let too much time slip away.

            “Just about, yeah,” confirmed Yuri. His eyes narrowed into a frown as Otabek half-sat, half-fell onto the bed. “You look like shit, are you-“

            “It’s normal,” he mumbled. Yuri was, perhaps, being generous in his assessment. _Can’t fall asleep now, he’ll worry._ Otabek didn’t want to answer the inevitable are-you-okay when the only truthful answer was _I don’t know_. “Tired. Easier to go the other way.”

            “-you sure?” A cool hand brushed against his cheek and he opened his eyes, blinking away dizziness. Yuri was sitting next to him now. He’d lost a few seconds, then. “Beka, hey, I’m going to call Viktor, okay?”

            Yuri was trying not to sound worried, which meant he was very worried. Otabek forced himself into a vaguely upright position.

            “Yura, it’s okay, happened before. Should have warned you. I’m sorry.”

            But then Yuri would have heard the anxiety in his voice, the _what-ifs_ he couldn’t even hide from himself, and Yuri might never have been able to see the wolf as anything other than a threat.

            “No, it’s fine, just give me a fucking heart attack,” Yuri said softly, running his fingers through Otabek’s hair. Otabek leaned into the touch, and – oh. He was lying down again. “Take a nap, and if you don’t start to look less like a zombie soon I’m calling Viktor anyway and we’re hauling your ass to a doctor.”

            “… Try a vet.” The grumbled response made past his ears but not into his mind, which was already well on its way to unconsciousness. He gave up and followed it.

* * *

          _Still here. Still here. Still here._

            Yuri rested his head on Otabek’s chest, the rise and fall of his breath a steady accompaniment to the movie playing on the laptop propped up on his knees. Whatever Otabek said, neither of them really believed that the sudden, crushing fatigue had been normal or fine.

            He shifted. Otabek whined in protest as Yuri accidentally elbowed him in the chin, the sound definitely closer to wolf than human. He stretched, almost knocking Yuri off the bed.

            “Here’s food, eat it.” Yuri didn’t wait for him to respond before shoving a protein bar into his face and slipping his laptop safely under the bed.

            “Where I’m from, we unwrap these first,” said Otabek, stifling a yawn and sitting up. “Thanks.”

            “Whatever, the wrapper probably tastes better anyway.” Yuri wrinkled his nose. “Why the hell do you eat those?”

            “Easiest way to sneak chocolate into a training diet, and I guess they grew on me.”

            “Like a damn fungus. So, are you awake, or are you going to pass out again?”

            “I’m up.” Otabek yawned again. “I’m sorry, I knew I’d be tired, but I didn’t think it would be that bad.”

            “You looked like you’d been hit by a car,” Yuri retorted, remembering the pallor of Otabek’s skin when he’d stepped into the room. “You scared the shit out of me, I thought you were- why the fuck didn’t you say something, at least? It wasn’t this bad that first time, you seemed basically fine.”

            He scowled as Otabek stared into the distance for a moment, taking time to find the right words and nudge them into order instead of throwing his thoughts out and waiting for something to stick, which was Yuri’s usual method.

            “That time, I thought that if I let myself pass out I’d never see you again, I’d never find out what happened to you, and I was reasonably sure I might be about to die because Viktor was kneeling on my back.” Okay, fair point. “You would have worried. Not wanted me to do it. And you already knew how I’d messed up before.” Sweden, he meant. Yuri had spent more time than he’d like to admit debating with himself over how long he’d wait before throwing a fit if Otabek seemed to have gotten… lost. “I wanted you to see that it’s not all bad, first.”

            He looked away from Yuri as he spoke. Yuri tugged on the end of his braid. _Not all bad._

            “If everything was fine, you would have just told me it was chill.” He bit his lip, wincing at the sting as he misjudged the pressure. “Is it… bad for you?”

            Yuri expected Otabek to flinch away, to go blank and withdrawn and lock himself away, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking.

            Otabek merely sighed, folding the wrapper of the protein bar into tiny, neat squares.

            “I don’t know. It feels like it might be.”

            It would be so easy to yell at Otabek for being stupid and reckless and self-destructive. Fifteen-year-old Yuri would already be screaming, and probably throwing things for good measure. Yuri-five-minutes-ago would have been strongly tempted.

            Present-Yuri remembered that Otabek never did anything without reason – even if his reasons were sometimes skewed and distorted and downright stupid.

            “Why do you do it? Why now? You- you’re stressed a lot. Worse than with Mila, I know that wasn’t all of it.”

            “I need to- I’m not sure how to say it in words. It feels like pressure sometimes. Being in the wrong shape is… itchy. Disorienting, but that’s not really it.” Otabek was obviously still tired, struggling to make sense of it, to shrink his world into something that could be chained into the confines of language. “Maybe that I’m already a wolf even though my body hasn’t caught up yet.”

            “I… think I get it? Kind of.” Yuri had heard a couple of the handful of other shapeshifters he’d met say something similar, but for them, there was no cost, no price to their changes. He wondered what it would be like to be able to turn away from fear; he’d only ever been able to embrace it, to control it, fighting back his imagination with facts, with borrowed memories and triple toe loops. “Beka, please tell me how you feel. I’m going to freak out that you’re not telling me stuff, and I’ll be right, because you always act like everything is fine and then panic about it instead of sleeping, and that sucks for both of us.”

            “I don’t-“

            “Remember how you forgot your coffee one morning and got a massive caffeine headache and didn’t tell anyone because it was ‘no big deal’ even though you could barely skate, and then you got anxious and googled it and called me at three in the morning wondering if it was meningitis?”

            “It was a really bad headache, Yura.”

            “That doesn’t _matter,_ ” Yuri replied, frustrated. “Not knowing what’s going on is… I can’t deal with it well, I- if I don’t know, I get stuck in it, and I need to be selfish with this. You go the other way, you try not to think about things, but we end up in the same place. And. And if.” The house was the same temperature it always was, too cool to feel _right_ and warm enough to be generally comfortable, but Yuri felt like ice. It wasn’t enough to see Otabek sitting there, to simply hear his heart’s steady rhythm promising that he was still safe, still okay. Yuri leaned into him, feeling the flutter of Otabek’s pulse under his skin. “If something is seriously wrong, I want to be there. I know how fucking terrifying it is to feel alone and I’m not letting that happen.”

            Otabek pulled him closer, settling his head on Yuri’s shoulder.

            The frost receded.

            “Okay,” Otabek whispered. “Okay.”

            “It doesn’t have to be now,” murmured Yuri. “I know you still feel like shit.”

            “Now is a good time. The stress thing really is part of it. I’m not… I’m not anxious right now.” _Shit,_ Yuri thought vaguely. He didn’t have to like that Otabek had to go wolf and potentially fuck himself over to feel less bad, but if it actually made him _happy,_ he couldn’t even bring himself to resent it. “I’m… tired.”

            “Beka, you basically don’t sleep,” Yuri said, because even if Otabek wasn’t stressed out, he was, and being a snarky asshole was how he coped, _okay._ He thought about how he’d felt in those months with just enough blood to keep him on his feet, too drained to even try to keep his head over the leaden tides.

Depression was a bitch.

            “Hush, Yura.” Yuri hushed. “That’s part of it, but it’s more than that. It doesn’t matter how much I sleep, I feel… empty. It- it gets better and worse, and I don’t know how much of it is in my head.” He sighed. “I feel like a battery.”

            “A battery?”

            “I'm using so much energy, and I don’t- I don’t know what will happen when it runs out,” Otabek said, his voice beginning to crack. Yuri stroked his hair, silently telling him that he didn’t have to keep going, that this could be enough, but Otabek shook his head; it was too late to stop now. “I’m burning too hot. The changing, the healing, my body isn’t made for this, I don’t know how long it can keep up. There are two things trying to live in me and it… I think it’s too much.”

            “Hey, Beka, breathe, whatever happens you’re okay right now, just breathe, it’s okay.” Yuri hugged him, moving so Otabek was curled up in his lap, head tucked under his chin. _Still here, still here, still here._ “What do you need?”

            And Otabek… Otabek fucking _laughed,_ quiet and weak and slightly choked, but he laughed into Yuri’s chest.

            “What the fuck, Altin.”

            “I’m okay, Yura, I promise,” he said. “It’s- it’s nothing new to me, I just… I haven’t talked about this much. I didn’t think I would be able to, ever. I wouldn’t even _let_ myself think about it for such a long time. I tried to block it out. That’s part of why I didn’t tell you right away, I was trying so hard to forget, and if I didn’t think about the future, it didn’t matter to me. And now… I said it, and nothing got worse. I’m okay.”

            “You’re so fucking weird,” Yuri grumbled, burying his face in Otabek’s hair, which was soft and smelled of lemongrass and chamomile and the chemicals shampoo-makers tried to hide with lemongrass and chamomile, and underneath all of that, smelled like Beka. He rubbed Otabek’s shoulders gently. “Shut up, I’m comforting you.”

            “Okay, Yura.” They both knew that Yuri was trying to make himself feel better too. Otabek was warm in his arms – _burning too hot_ – as he lifted his head and kissed Yuri’s cheek. Despite the fact that, as a werewolf, he was stronger than any human, he still felt soft and delicate to Yuri (though of course no one, especially not Yuri himself, would have ever suspected that the Russian Fairy might one day be able to bench press a car). It would have been easy to forget how resilient he was, that every display of vulnerability was a gift of trust backed by steel. “Are you… I know that was a lot.”

            “I’m giving you a medal for inappropriately timed concern, Beshka,” sighed Yuri. “Thank you for telling me. I’m glad I know now. And I can keep an eye on you, so you don’t have to worry so much.” There were things he could _do._ “Have you thought about trying a sleep aid? Your weird-ass schedule can’t be helping anything.”

            “A little. My metabolism is weird, I need really high doses. The healing should deal with any toxicity while we figure out how much I need, but we didn’t want to push it, and it’s more staying asleep than falling asleep. I didn’t tell you how Dr. Schäfer calculated how much fluoxetine to put me on, did I?” Yuri shook his head, not quite sure he wanted to find out, because any therapist who worked with the undead was unconventional, to say the least. “She… she called a vet and talked to them about canine doses per kilogram, and adjusted it to my weight. Started on the lower end and then increased it until it began to work. We’re still messing with it a bit.”

            “Holy fuck. How much are you taking?”

            “I think a hundred sixty milligrams per day now,” he said, laughing again. “It was twenty before the werewolf thing.”

            Yuri blinked. He’d opened the pill box for Otabek, whose lack of thumbs had been inconvenient and highly amusing at times, and hadn’t thought much of it when Otabek had nudged him until he took out two tablets instead of one.

            “Viktor should probably stop worrying about your caffeine habit, I guess.” Otabek was suspiciously quiet, and Yuri narrowed his eyes. “Beka?”

            “Caffeine, um, kind of does more now. Not for as long though.”

            “I’d argue with you about this if I hadn’t seen your face that time Yakov tried to cut you off. I actually thought you were going to cry.”

            “I would have.”

            “You would have _bawled._ ”

            “And I’m not ashamed.”

            “You use all your embarrassment up on other stuff,” agreed Yuri, smirking. “Like-“

            “Yura, no-“

            “Poor Phichit-“

            “Why are you doing this to me?”

            “- pretending he wasn’t dripping snot all over the carpet-“

            “It wasn’t funny, Yura.”

            “It was fucking hilarious, Beka, I took a video when he wasn’t looking.”

            “He was trying to hard to be polite,” said Otabek, who was trying not to smile. “I don’t think he remembered that we could smell the allergy medicine he took.”

            “ _I_ couldn’t, but Georgi’s allergic to cats and he always wanted to hold Zoyenka after a breakup. I know what it looks like. We made fun of him for it, and Mila always- ugh.” Mila, who was trying to keep her distance and let him think, unaware that what he was actually doing was waiting for Otabek to be less furry. Otabek lifted an eyebrow. “Mila texted me. She apologized for being an ass. She wants to talk, but… in person. I said I’d let her know.”

            “I thought she might,” replied Otabek, sounding determined but less than thrilled. “I think it’s a good idea. It’ll be easier to explain, and I can’t hear as well over the phone.” The tiny cues in voices, in breathing, in heartbeats – close to useless when speaking with Viktor, for whom one was optional, one was absent, and the last was hidden under years of carefully learned secrets, but something Yuri had come to rely on with Otabek – would be vital information in such a touchy situation. “And maybe it will help if she can see me, if she can see that I love you, that I’ll never hurt you on purpose.”

            “I hope so,” Yuri said. He missed her, missed the friend who didn’t want to lock him in a gilded cage and cover it in bubble wrap. “You’re doing everything you can, it’s not your fault if it doesn’t work out, but… I really want it to.”

            “I do too.” He could feel Otabek’s muscles tense against him.

            “I’ll tell her it’s okay then.” Otabek’s hair tickled his neck as he nodded. “Um. So Mila knows about me obviously. And more than that, but it’s not- I’m not telling her your stuff, and she hasn’t said I could, so I can’t tell you about her, but she’s kinda involved with everything. I know you’ve had some shit experiences with people and I thought you should have some warning so it’s not a surprise.”

            “That… yeah. Thank you.”

            He would have to stop Otabek from letting Mila rip into him, Yuri thought. She would take silence as an admission of guilt and run with it, leaving them in the accusatory dust.

* * *

            Her whole life was an attempt to leave the ground, Mila decided, to give up her citizenship as a subject of gravity. Airplanes, transient and fleeting, were a second home, and what was skating but the promise of flight?

            She’d walked through Tegel Airport enough times that her feet found their way to the taxi lineup without her guidance. There was no need to stop at baggage claim, as she’d brought only a hastily packed backpack.

            He was never supposed to come back.

            Mila had heard about his mysterious disappearance. Everyone who had so much as looked at an ice rink knew that the Hero of Kazakhstan had gone missing, but they didn’t know that he was nothing more than a bundle of lies wrapped in shining armor. She hadn’t been surprised to find out that his disappearing act had become a trend, nor that he hadn’t felt the need to talk to his family. Empathy was a foreign language for anyone who could ignore Yuri’s broken, pleading voice begging him to come back, to just call once.

            She caught the flash of his smile when he greeted her, hidden quickly behind the habitual scowl and sneer. Yuri was still angry with her, and Mila _understood,_ but she wasn’t sure he understood the gaping hole that had been torn in her heart when she showed up at the rink that morning, her uncharged phone unable to deliver the message that said to stay home.

            That was the last time she’d seen the building that had been more than her home. Mila moved to Italy after the funeral, her grief slipping into a spot in the Milan complex with the Crispinos and their sympathetic coach.

            It was better for Yuri to hate her for however long he needed to than to let him be hurt again. That was the difference between love and the rotten fog of Otabek Altin’s selfishness, which filled the house he moved through like it was his own, like he had a right to a single breath of its air. He probably believed he loved Yuri, she realized, stomach lurching, but if he cared about anyone other than himself he would have left Yuri alone instead of reopening the scars carved by his own hand.

            Yuri had asked her to listen, but he didn’t have the whole story. He had to _know._

            And he would know that she wasn’t lying to him. Humans couldn’t, after all – their bodies would inevitably betray them, heart pounding, sweat tinged with a hint of fear. She couldn’t lie to a vampire. But Otabek… something was off about him, the way he’d hidden himself from her searches, the coldness in his eyes when she confronted him. Who knew what he could do?

            She met his eyes.

            Mila was fire, and Otabek was nothing more than ice pretending to be a glacier. She would melt him. She would fucking vaporize him.

            “Did you tell him that you didn’t even say goodbye?” Mila hissed, layering her voice with sweet concern. “Or does he still think you actually cared?”

            Otabek’s face hardened, stilled.

            “Mila,” growled Yuri, “you promised to be civil and _listen_ to me. I’m not-”

            “I don’t think you’re an idiot or a child, Yura! I think that you’re a _person,_ and that you believe you have to do everything by yourself, but that’s not how it works,” she interrupted. “You need to listen to _me,_ too, because you don’t know everything, you weren’t _there_ for it!”

            Yuri sat on the couch. Next to Otabek, who was frozen in place. _Good. Watch your stolen life crumble, snake._

            “Mila, I know he was at the funeral,” said Yuri, dropping into a hoarse whisper. “And I… I wish you had told me.”

            “He made an appearance,” she corrected. Sitting there with a blank face and cheap suit, walking out without a word. “Yuri, I don’t know what he told you, but he wasn’t there for- for anything good, he just wanted to be seen so he didn’t look bad for skipping. He… he didn’t say anything, he didn’t say goodbye, he didn’t so much as look at Nikolai, he didn’t even stick around until you were _buried,_ he just left _._ ”

            There was no argument from Otabek. There was nothing to disagree with, to contradict.

            Yuri’s eyes shifted from scalding smoke to ice, but it wasn’t directed at the man whose shoulder he touched lightly, gently, a softness he would never deserve. The chill was aimed at her, and her heart ached.

            “I know, Mila. We’ve talked about this. We’ve talked about everything.”

            _Please don’t do this to yourself, Yura, please listen to me._

            “He shouldn’t have even been there,” Mila whispered, choking back the tears that tore at her throat with jagged, dirty claws. “He knew it, he didn’t even reply when I talked to him, _he knew,_ and he did it anyway, he knew there wouldn’t have even been a funeral if he’d been anything remotely close to a decent person!”

            Fangs, bared, in surprise as much as anger.

            “Mila, what the fuck are you saying?” Yuri was shouting. Maybe, just maybe, she was getting through to him. “You- you yelled at him _at my funeral?_ And how- what- what the hell do you even mean, are you on drugs?”

            “After,” she snarled. “I wasn’t going to disrespect you, not like he did.”

            Yuri glanced between them. Before, his face would have been red with rage, lips pressed tight and bloodless, but now he was simply pale.

            “ _Someone,_ ” he said, smooth and cool as rain, “had better explain this to me, right now.”

            She was getting there.

_Yuri, I love you, so many people love you, you’re worth more than this. You don’t need him._

            To her shock, Otabek spoke first.

            “Yura, she’s- we balance each other out. You drag me out of my head when I get stuck, and I slow you down when you push too hard. I wasn’t there to… to remind you to stop, and maybe if I had been-“

            Yuri pulled away from him.

            “No one fucking-“

            “That’s what you thought I was saying, Altin?” Mila laughed, the sound ripping from her lungs. “I didn’t think you could get any worse. “I didn’t mean that you could have stopped him. Yura, I don’t think you would have listened, not when you were that upset. You would always skate when you were angry, if something was bothering you. And we both know what was bothering you.”

            “Stop talking. Now.”

            She took a deep breath. This was the breaking point, of one thing or another.

            “You wouldn’t have been at the rink at all that night if Otabek hadn’t left.”


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so this is another two part chapter because I am a Mess who really loves Mila Babicheva. 
> 
> If anyone wants to talk about the story or whatever else, I'm [iguanastevens](http://iguanastevens.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, come hit me up.

Yuri would have sworn his blood was boiling if the back of his neck wasn’t so cold - and if he had much in the way of blood at all. The room faded into beige and grey, receding into the distance and pulling in, the walls claustrophobic and stifling. At some point, he didn’t remember when, Yuri had jumped to his feet, leaving Otabek frozen and breathless behind him.

“You don’t know why I was skating,” he snarled. Maybe if he remembered that day he could tell her she was full of shit and she’d actually listen to him, but his last hours as a human faded out well before the fall. “Because _I_ don’t even know.”

“I know you!” Mila’s lips pressed into a tight, pale line, but her eyes were wide with something he distantly thought might be fear. She still didn’t understand that the only person Yuri had ever had to be afraid of was himself, of the stubbornness he used to wear as proudly as his medals.

“You’re never going to admit that this was my fault, are you?” His shout crashed through the room like thrown dishes, shattering, breaking. “Is that what this is about, you won’t say that I fucked up, you have to find someone to blame and Beka’s the easiest target? You think I didn’t _know_ I was too tired to be safe, like fifteen years of skating wasn’t long enough for me to figure it out, like Yakov didn’t lecture me every other week?”

 _I’m in control,_ he told himself, clutching at the threads. _I’m in control it was my choice I fucked up and I can do better, it’s not going to happen again, I can stop it, I’m_ safe.

“Yura, it wasn’t- you don’t have to blame yourself,” she whispered. “It was… it was an accident, but you shouldn’t have been there that late at all, you shouldn’t have felt like you _had_ to be, you wouldn’t have been if he’d called you back just once!”

Otabek hadn’t moved; Yuri wasn’t sure he’d so much as taken a breath. His words came in a rough monotone.

“I never got them.” Beka was somewhere far, far away, Yuri saw, buried deep within himself. _I was lost,_ he’d said once, and Yuri hadn’t quite understood until this moment.

He didn’t disagree with Mila.

 _He believes her,_ Yuri realized with a twist of nausea. _He’s believed her for two and a half years._

* * *

_March 15, 2019_

“Oi, баба, have you seen Beka?” Yuri propped his foot on the barrier surrounding the rink, leaning into his warm-up stretches as if they’d personally offended him.

“Good morning to you too, Yura,” groaned Mila, yawning into her smoothie. “He’s not late yet.”

“He’s late by Otabek standards,” retorted Yuri, hiding a flash of worry behind a sneer as he twisted, lifting his leg into a standing split. Mila winced as she heard his hip pop. “Overachieving asshole. He’d better be sleeping in.”

Across the rink, Yakov bellowed at a pair of juniors, and Yuri snickered as they cringed and skated away, giggling nervously.

“Idiots,” he muttered, lacing up his skates. “Should know by now that Yakov won’t even let them think about quads.”

“Yeah, because _you_ followed the rules,” replied Mila, flicking Yuri’s ear as he walked past.

“ _Ow,_ hag, what the hell? And I was smart enough to do it when Yakov wasn’t looking.”

Others began to trickle onto the ice. The sun crept over the horizon, its weak spring light sparkling as it shone through the windows that made up one wall of the St. Petersburg rink. Warm-ups transitioned into stroking drills. Otabek didn’t show, and Yakov yelled at Yuri every time he snuck to the edge of the rink to check his phone.

Yakov was called into the administrative office, leaving his assistant coach alone, a look of dawning horror on her face as the juniors glanced at each other with dreams of quads in their eyes. Sighing, Mila spun out of her step sequence run-through to cajole them into sticking to their agility drills, but Yuri had already skidded to a halt and was recounting tales of a particularly gruesome injuries suffered by overenthusiastic and underskilled juniors, complete with sound effects. Eyes grew wide; one boy turned slightly green.

At lunch, Yuri’s soup grew cold and his phone remained silent.

“He’ll still be on the plane, Yura,” Mila reminded him gently. “And he never pays for their internet. Besides, we don’t know for sure that anything is even wrong – maybe he just forgot his second-cousin-three-times-removed’s birthday and is being punished according to the Altin Family Code.”

“They’re fucking bonkers,” agreed Yuri, scoffing. “You know he missed their weekly skype thing once and his grandma called me? I was in the shower.” He was silent for a moment. “I’ll stop by his place later and water his plants.”

 

_April 3, 2019_

“You talk to his sister sometimes, right? Have you called her?”

Yuri slammed the locker shut with a rattling _clang_.

“I’m not gonna bother them if something’s wrong,” he growled. “Besides, if he wanted to talk, he would.”

Two weeks. Countless texts and a handful of phone calls from Yuri had gone unanswered; Mila’s email might as well have been sent into a void. Otabek’s name had been quietly withdrawn from the Worlds roster, amid a flurry of speculative tabloids and more reputable news sources.

“Do… do you think he’s okay?” Yuri’s voice shifted, quicksilver, his spikes melting into something soft and vulnerable, and Mila fought back a prickle of worry.

“I hope so, Yura,” she said softly. “We’d have heard from his family if they were worried about him.”

Last week, Yuri had been gliding across the ice, his costume sparkling in a metallic rainbow of red and gold as he took the starting position for his short program. Mila’s heart dropped when she saw his brief pause, instinctively waiting for the usual _davai_ to ring across the ice.

Instead, the silence was broken by the opening chords of his music.

Her worry had begun to shift, growing into anger cloaked with swirling clouds of fear.

* * *

“Okay,” Mila countered, “let’s say I believe that you lost your phone and thought it was out of service. You couldn’t have even left a note? Or called when you lied to Yakov about your family emergency?”

He should have. Syrupy regret flowed through Otabek’s body; it had replaced his blood nearly three years before, heavy and suffocating. He’d been scared, overwhelmed, sure that whatever was wrong with him would tear through lives like paper unless he could _fix_ it.

Otabek hadn’t known how wrong he’d been.

He hadn’t known how right he’d been, either.

But… Yuri was standing less than a meter away, different, _safe,_ and something close to happy. He’d never hated Otabek, hadn’t stopped caring, hadn’t cut him off, no matter what Mila had said that night after the universe had gone cold and dark and empty.

He knew this was coming, had asked for it.

“I thought I had to.” He heard his own voice, but he wasn’t sure who was speaking – it sounded too far away, too steady, too sure. But whoever or whatever it was that bid the words that fell from his lips was doing a better job than he would have. Intention didn’t matter, except when it did. He could run across the world, but there was no way out but through. “I thought it would only be a few days.”

Now she would ask _why,_ and he might tell her, and the wolf was sure that that’s when he would find out what the hot-metal rain scent of magic on her skin meant. That’s how it went, when people found an answer they didn’t want to hear.

Instead:

“I emailed you,” she said coldly. “I _looked_ for you, you knew I would, and you hid from me.”

“Mila, you looked for him?” Yuri asked, his fidgeting fading into a granite stillness.

“Of course I looked! Every single fucking spell I could find after Worlds, because I knew something had to be wrong.”

Everything was too close, too new, too old, disintegrating and rising again around him. Mila had emailed, he remembered now – a few casual words, but maybe he would have noticed the concern embedded within if he’d paid more attention. They had been buried under angry emails from sponsors, reporters begging for a hint of why he wasn’t competing, piles of false worry and demands.

 _I'm fine,_ he’d almost replied to one, but deleted it almost immediately. He hadn’t been fine, hadn’t even been _close,_ and there was nothing anyone could – or would – do to help.

And… she wasn’t Yuri. That in itself was enough for the bitter wash of loneliness to shut her out.

“Beka?” That was Yuri’s voice, he realized dimly, and his body was itching, aching to blur and shift. Otabek clenched his jaw, fighting it back. “Are you-“

“No.” _Not now,_ he told himself. No way out but through. The wolf wanted control, it was already halfway there, and he wouldn’t let it come a step closer.

“It wouldn’t be you this time, would it?” Yuri murmured, and Mila stood across the room, head tilted in confusion. She must have figured it out by now. “Do you need space?”

“It’s not me now,” Otabek mumbled. No, that was wrong, that wasn’t what he wanted to tell Yuri. “It’s okay, I’ve got it.”

Emotions were fuzzy shapes in the distance. He could deal with them later; some of them had been pushed aside for years, so a few more hours was nothing.

“I’m sorry,” he told Mila. She smelled like anger and fear, suspicion written into the tight lines around her blue eyes, uncertainty painting the knuckles of her hands white and pink. It wouldn’t be enough, but it was a start – and he’d owed it to her for years.

“For what?” Her eyes glittered. Grief was mixed with her rage, poignant and cruel. “You knew I was a witch from the moment you walked into my apartment, you must have, I never tried to hide it like you did. Are you sorry for that? Or are you sorry for blocking my spells?”

 _A witch._ Otabek tried not to shudder. Witches were human, on the edge of magic and mundane; hyperaware of the limits of their strength and unable to forget that it would take less than nothing to become something like him. Infected, one had snarled, the first he’d approached.

“Not one of them worked, Altin, and I want to know _why,_ ” Mila said, her hiss broken by an almost imperceptible quaver. “There was nothing, like I was trying to track a ghost, no matter what I did. I couldn’t tell your family, or Yuri, or the police, because who would listen to the crazy lady calling herself a witch? Those calls, and then nothing _,_ for weeks. I thought you were dead.”

* * *

_April 4, 2019_

Mila spread the map of Almaty across her bedroom floor, outlining its edges with lines traced in charcoal and dried zinnia, and stuck one short, dark strand of hair to a feather with a tiny blob of wax.

It wasn’t creepy, she told herself. She was just checking up on a friend who seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth, even if it was a rather unconventional method that had required sneaking into his apartment and gathering hair from his pillowcase. No worse than geotagging.

She blew gently on the feather and watched it float through the air, looping and twisting, hovering for a moment over the map. _Come on,_ Mila thought, _where the fuck is he?_

It landed on the border. She nudged it experimentally to see if it would return to the spot – after all, she didn’t know where in Almaty his family lived, or where they might go. The feather fluttered and lay still.

Mila sat back on her heels. Either she’d fucked up a spell that she could do while drunk off her ass, or Otabek wasn’t in the city.

Okay. She hadn’t known in the first place that he was actually in Almaty, it had just been a guess. He must have family in other places across the country. And hadn’t he mentioned grandparents in France? No big deal. She just had to modify her methods.

Kazakhstan was too big for the feather trick, and France would be a fucking nightmare. A compass, then. She had the supplies already, if she dumped her cactus out of the copper bowl that had served as an emergency repotting solution.

She set it up on the kitchen table, pointedly not thinking about the pounding headache she’d have to suffer through all of the next day.

“Come on, baby, give me a direction, that’s all you’ve gotta do,” Mila crooned at the needle, which was _supposed_ to spin and point her towards the linked subject, but was instead bobbing around the bowl, speared through the chunk of old wine cork. She concentrated, pushing more energy at it. “Where the hell is he, you-“

The water boiled, evaporating into a cloud of steam, and Mila jerked back her scalded hand with a gasp.

 

_“Are you sure it was grounded properly, sweetie?”_

“I was using the bowl grandpa gave me. The needle was steel instead of iron, but that shouldn’t make a difference, right?” Mila pressed the ice pack to her burned fingers, biting back tears. “Mom, it should have worked, I don’t– there has to be a reason.”

Her mother tucked a strand of apricot-silver hair – her face in the skype window was a glimpse of Mila’s future, sure as looking in a mirror – and sighed.

“It could be nothing. You said your friend has called a couple of times?”

“Yes, but only our coach, he hasn’t replied to me or- or Yuri. And I know it’s not just his phone, because I emailed him twice.” Those calls could have been faked, she was sure, or forced. It was paranoia, certainly, but this was _Otabek._

“Well, you might have found the wrong sort of hair, if he has pets or makes a habit of stopping to pet dogs. If you pushed enough power into it, that could have caused the water to boil, because it’s only calibrated for humans,” her mother said, frowning. “I’ve never heard of counterspells doing that – they usually throw out a random location, to throw off the searcher, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be done. It’s possible he’s fae-touched, or a changeling who was never reclaimed, or has something else thrown into his family history. And it could just be a fluke.”

Or maybe there was no one to find.

Yakov had brushed Mila off when she asked, patting her shoulder and gruffly telling her to focus on her skating let him worry about flighty young men taking impromptu vacations. He looked worried, too.

“I can’t go to the police, they’ll just say he’s an adult and he’s called so there’s no reason to think there’s something wrong,” she whispered. “I thought about trying to contact his family, but even if I had a way to, what could I tell them, _I’m afraid that your son might be dead because my magic GPS exploded_? Either they’re already worried and keeping it quiet for some reason, or they’ll think I’m nuts, and it won’t _change_ anything.”

“Oh, _lisichka,_ people think that what we can do makes our lives easier,” her mother murmured sadly. “Don’t give up hope yet, okay?”

“Thanks, Mama.”

As she ended the call, Mila felt younger than she had in years.

She was older than Yuri, she reminded herself. She was, by a handful of months, older than Otabek.

She couldn’t give up on either of them.

* * *

 

Mila refused to cry. She’d shed enough tears for several lifetimes while that year was happening, and she wouldn’t let the memories bring more.

Otabek didn’t hide from her spells (he said), but his expression hadn’t changed, hadn’t offered her more than a flicker of silent thought in his dark eyes.

“He’s lying,” she told Yuri. Even if she couldn’t lie to him, she didn’t know what Otabek could do, or even what he really was – the line of his profile had blurred in her vision for a moment, as if teetering on a line between two contradictory realities. Yuri was still frozen in place, shocked by her revelation, as if he’d been the only one who cared when Otabek left, as if he’d been the only one hurt. _Selfish,_ she berated herself. _His was worse. That’s why you’re here, Mila, remember that._ “Yura, he’s _lying._ ”

“Beka’s not lying, Mila,” he said softly. “You’re not, and he’s not.”

 _He has to be,_ she thought, and Yuri responded to her silent insistence with a look that shot directly to the core of the animal that humans pretended to have left behind. _Prey,_ her nerves remembered. _Run,_ they insisted.

Yuri lightly knocked his knuckles against the wall. _Tap-_ tap, _tap-_ tap, _tap-_ tap.

“That’s your heartbeat,” he whispered. “You’re breathing too fast, but you’re trying not to, because you don’t want me to know you’re scared. The same things happen when you lie, and I can hear them. I’m _built_ to notice these things, I’m a predator, and I see things you don’t. You don’t have to protect me from anyone, and you don’t have to tell me what’s true, so don’t even _try._ ”

He wasn’t doing this to scare her. Yuri wasn’t _doing_ anything; he was just existing, and she’d forgotten that.

“I can be mad at people by myself,” he continued. “Mila, this is why we wanted you to listen. You don’t have to be angry, not for me, because it was all a series of fucking accidents and mistakes and if you’re going to blame people, I’d damn well better be at the top of that list.”

Mila’s mouth tasted of hot ash, and it was trying to choke her. How could she blame Yuri when she’d been the one trying to hold him together and failing, when she’d lost him?

She wasn’t even sure if she was still angry for Yuri, whose façade of calm was barely cracking, or at Otabek, who must have been showing some response she couldn’t pick up, judging by the quick glances Yuri cast his way.

She almost, _almost,_ could have believed that Otabek loved Yuri instead of the idea of him, except... even if it had all been misunderstandings and well-intentioned mistakes, he’d done damage that had become a scar Yuri would bear for the rest of his life, and Otabek still asked for a second chance.

“I never hated Beka,” Yuri snapped when she didn’t respond. “Why the hell do you have to? This is as much on me as it is on him, we both fucked up, so why don’t you hate me too?”

_There._

“That’s why, Yura!” Mila shouted, smirking to herself when Otabek flinched. _So he_ can _respond._ “Because you never hated him, but he made you hate yourself!”

* * *

_May 16, 2019_

Mila caught Yuri sneaking out of the dance studio with swollen, reddened eyes. He wiped at them angrily as she approached, turning his face away.

“Yura…”

“Fuck off,” he snarled, “I’m just allergic to your bullshit. Out of my way, I have conditioning in five minutes.”

His phone was clenched in a white-knuckled grip, and instead of stepping aside, Mila tugged it from his fingers. Yuri didn’t resist, but he clenched his fist around its absence. She said nothing, not trusting her voice or her heart.

“I fucking _know,_ ” Yuri spat. “I know he’s not going to pick up, he was lying about the _family thing_ , but I have to- I’m not gonna give up, not until I get some damn answers. Now move, I have to go.”

“No you don’t,” Mila replied quickly, catching his elbow as he pushed past her. “I have an absolutely terrible migraine, you’re going to be a gentleman and walk me to my apartment, and by the time you’ve gotten me there the coaches will have all gone home, oops, it’s too late for you to come back.”

Yuri narrowed his eyes, his face a mosaic of _pink white green blue._

“You don’t have a headache.”

“But I will tomorrow,” she said, “because I have a liquor sampler Sara sent me last week, and a liter of vodka for when we’re too drunk to feel our tongues.”

He paused, considering.

“Okay,” Yuri agreed finally. “Just us, though.”

“Us and Zoyenka,” Mila said, hefting her backpack higher on her shoulder. “Off to your place, then.”

“Oi, баба, you promised _your_ alcohol.”

She grinned and tapped her bag lightly. The contents clinked.

“So I did.”

 

Yuri sprawled across the couch, head heavy in Mila’s lap, skin flushed with alcohol.

“Hit me,” he demanded, pointing at the bottle by her feet.

“Get it your own damn self, Yura,” she retorted. “It’s closer to you.”

He considered it, waved a lazy hand, and snorted.

“But I don’t want to,” he muttered, blinking up at her. Mila combed her fingers through his hair, sighing, and leaned forward to pick up the bottle, squishing Yuri’s face into her stomach as he groaned a muffled complaint.

“Ingrate.” She flicked his forehead and he opened his mouth. “Gotta sit up first, kid.”

Yuri shook his head and Mila shrugged, tipping out what was meant to be a few drops. He spluttered and choked, coughing as she laughed.

“Told you so. You got vodka in my hair.”

“Tried to-“ He coughed again, gasping for breath- “tried to fucking waterboard me, hag, what the hell.”

Mila rubbed his back gently, giggling while he wiped his streaming eyes. He settled back, leaning into her, all bony limbs and rigid muscle.

“Beka wouldn’t have let us do that,” he slurred, “he would’ve… not let us. Mila, I miss him.”  

“I know.” Tears pricked at her eyes. Otabek should be sprawled out on the other end of the couch, avoiding Yuri’s vodka-clumsy feet as he reminded them that _straws are a thing that exists, here, try not to drown._ “Me too, sweetie.”

“D’you think he’s okay?”

 _No._ Yuri’s cheeks were damp, streaked with hot tears.

“Of course,” she said. “We would have heard something if he wasn’t.”

“What if… what if he left because of me?” The words hitched in Yuri’s throat, twisted into a wrenching sob. “Because I’m- people don’t like me and I don’t care but I thought Beka liked me, even though I’m always an asshole and I yell all the time and he just got tired of it, he knew I was just a jerk who can’t even skate right-“

“Oh, Yurochka, honey, don’t think that, please,” she murmured, pulling him into a hug. He was warm in her arms; Yuri was a sun, burning hot and bright, and she wouldn’t let this put him out. She couldn’t do anything for Otabek, maybe no one could, but Yuri didn’t have to fall with him. “Sometimes people aren’t who we thought they were. He’s an idiot who doesn’t deserve you, and next season you’re going to lace up your skates and blow everyone away, because no one else can beat your records.”

 _If something happened to you, Beka, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what else to do, I can’t tell him._ The Otabek she thought she knew would want to protect Yuri. If that Otabek had been nothing more than a fleeting fiction... _If you’re not dead or in serious trouble, Altin, I am going to tear your organs out while you watch._

“Took his photos off Instagram,” Yuri told her, picking at the couch cushion. “People kept- kept commenting. Asking stuff.”

“Good,” she said softly. “Did you- did you delete them?”

If Otabek was _gone_ instead of just gone, Yuri would want those pictures, their memories.

“Private album. Couldn’t… I tried. Couldn’t do it, I fucking- Mila, I’m trying so hard to hate him and I fucking can’t, I can’t stop calling but he’s never going to answer and I don’t know why, I want to hate him but it’s too hard.” His breathy hiccup stabbed into her chest, leaking poison. “Mila, I love him.”

“I’ll hate him for you,” Mila whispered. “You just… you do what you need to do, Yura, I can hate him for both of us.”

“I love you too, баба.” He was quiet for a minute. “’m really drunk. Not gonna remember this.”

“That’s okay. Feel any better?”

“… a little.” Yuri sighed, melting back into her lap. “Don’t leave, okay? I can’t- just don’t leave.”

“Never, Yura. I’m staying right here.”

* * *

 

Viktor tried to stop himself from getting involved, but keeping that promise was harder than he’d anticipated – Otabek must have expected this, when he’d quietly asked Viktor to let him talk to Mila with his face drawn and worried. Resigned, maybe. He pushed away a flash of irritation at Otabek’s apparently inability to understand that dealing with situations didn’t always mean riding out the pain, that it was okay to back away or defend himself.

Then again, that’s what he’d been taught, these past few years. If Otabek had tried to fight every battle, it wouldn’t have had time to become a war, and if he’d tried to run from them, he’d have gotten no more relief than a knife in the back. It was a lesson Viktor had learned the night he met the vampire hunter who told him that being a monster is what you choose to do instead of what you are – words that were spoken from both sides of the divide, because he had no illusions that they would have shed a tear had he decided to run and been rewarded with a silver bullet.

The most important lessons came from experiences that were otherwise best left unremembered, Viktor thought.

He listened to the ruckus. Some might have called it a ‘conversation,’ but Viktor wasn’t that generous.

Yuri, for all his shouted requests that Mila _just fucking listen,_ was doing a spectacularly bad job of returning the favor – not that ‘return’ was exactly appropriate. They talked past each other and over Otabek, who liked to have his thoughts combed into order before releasing them into the world and was thus cast adrift in the tsunami of half-formed exclamations that twisted and turned without warning. When he did manage to slip a word in, he said exactly what he meant, but Mila looked for a hidden intent and snapped back into mistrust when she came back empty-handed.

Then, instead of allowing Otabek time to elaborate, Yuri’s hackles would raise and they’d be back to snarling and bickering. Otabek grew quieter, Yuri got louder, and Mila became more upset as they didn’t hear what she wasn’t saying.

It was, on the whole, an abject failure.

Enough was enough. Otabek seemed to be holding himself together, but Mila didn’t understand that he fell into himself and endured, and would never give her the reaction she wanted. That could only last so long; Viktor figured they could help him deal with the unavoidable eventual breakdown, but he would _really_ prefer not to have to coax him out of wolf form while trying to convince Yuri not to do or say anything he’d regret.

“We’re done for the night,” Viktor said as he stepped into the living room. “Mila, I’ll give you a lift back to your hotel.”

Yuri, glowering so fiercely that Viktor half-feared Mila’s hair might burst into flame, seemed… relieved. For once, he was ready to let an argument rest – for Otabek’s sake, undoubtedly, who sat as if carved from stone. On the surface, he didn’t look upset; on the contrary, he looked like a man who had never felt an emotion in his entire life and regarded the whole concept as messy and unnecessary. It was, unfortunately, easy to see why Mila assumed he didn’t care. If Viktor had encountered someone with that expression at a funeral, he might not have waited until afterwards to start throwing punches, consequences be damned.

“But-“ protested Mila, looking lost. “I-“

“It wasn’t an offer,” he said mildly. “Yuri?”

“I have my phone,” replied Yuri, deliberately letting his eyes skip past Mila as he glanced over. Not thrilled that Viktor wasn’t just tossing Mila out the door and letting her catch a train into the city, obviously, but Yuri and Otabek could talk to each other and calm down – he wasn’t sure Mila had anyone, outside of this room, who would really understand.

Yuri and Otabek had hurt each other.

What they seemed to have forgotten was that both of them had left Mila behind.

* * *

_June 3, 2019_

The Grand Prix assignments were announced. Mila was in Skate Canada and the NHK Trophy, and Yuri would be with her in Canada and then the Trophée de France for his second event. She didn’t share any qualifiers with Sara, but they’d try to slip in a visit and meet at the final – they _had_ to, because Sara had mentioned retirement more than a few times over the past year.

Otabek, to no one’s surprise, wasn’t listed, but Mila saw Yuri’s face fall a little further as he read through. He said nothing, but threw himself into training with a fervor that made even Lilia frown with concern. She overheard them discussing the choreography at the side of the rink; Yuri, who made a hobby of riling up Yakov but _never_ talked back to Lilia, was dangerously close to shouting. Mila rewrapped her knee, which had been aching for the past week, and pretended not to listen.

“I want the quad flip.”

“You are unable to land it in practice, Yuri. We will not include a jump that is outside of your current skill set at this time.”

“I told you, I’m learning it, I’ll be able to do it! I need the flip, that Canadian jackass-“

“ _Language,_ Yuri.”

“ _Jean-Jacques Leroy_ is bragging about a quad-quad combo and he’s hinting that neither of the jumps is a toe loop, I couldn’t beat him _once_ last year, I won’t let-“

“When you can reliably land the quad flip, we will add it to your program, but Yakov and I agree that your focus must be on re-mastering your previous skills. Risking injury because you refuse to devote proper time to adjusting to your new height and balance will _not_ be tolerated.”

Lilia cast a sharp glance in her direction, and Mila did her best not to choke on her gulp of water. How did she _always_ know?

Mila’s own short program was still an unfinished mess; her free skate had more shape to it, but entire segments had nothing more than a rough idea and a list of required elements. The choreographer who was supposed to help her was frustrated with her lack of focus. Mila _tried_ – she tried to push away the soft ache as Yuri ducked his head to hide tears that sometimes struck without warning, the bitter, twisting worry for the Otabek who was her friend, and the scalding hatred for the Otabek who tossed Yuri away without so much as a goodbye. She tried to ignore the headaches and weariness that followed her the day after spellcasting, to ignore her blurring eyes and dragging feet as Mila tried every ritual she and her mother could dig up.

Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t.

She hit the ice hard, toppling into an ungainly sprawl as her feet tangled beneath her. Yuri laughed as Mila climbed to her feet, the churlish snicker of someone who had been in the same position too often in too short a time, sourly grateful to see another fall from grace.

Mila glared at him, her sympathy for his emotional turmoil momentarily outweighed by irritation at his childishness, his thoughtlessness. Nothing hurt except her pride – the red paint of embarrassment splashed across her cheeks.

Then her knee buckled underneath her, throwing her once more to the ground.

She didn’t hear Yuri stop laughing, but he must have, because he was suddenly beside her as she gritted her teeth, fighting back the waves of splintered glass that ricocheted through her leg. He was talking, she thought, watching his wide eyes, but his voice was too quiet to hear over the roar of blood pounding through her ears.

The pain faded away – not as quickly as it had come, unfortunately, but after what might have been seconds or might have been hours, she could breathe again. The rink medic was gently peeling her hands away from the aching joint, unwinding the carefully secured wrap and prodding her leg with a featherlight touch.

A muscle spasm, the doctor informed her later. The actual damage was minor, but it was a flagship, the first of many consequences for years of pushing her body to the brink. It was as inevitable as it was unwelcome.

A week off the ice, two more of light training, and she could go through the season as normal, barring any complications – complications would mean retirement, surgery, or both.

Both of those, too, were inevitable.

Yuri was sitting in the lobby when she was finally released. He sprang to his feet. Yakov was speaking quietly with the doctor.

“ _Fuck,_ баба, are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine, Yura. Yakov’s driving me home.” She hobbled towards the lift. Yuri tried to follow them in, but Yakov – thank God for the old man, Mila thought – shook his head. They would have to talk about the injury on the way back, and she didn’t want Yuri to listen to that. He had too much to deal with already. Besides, she was aching, nauseated, exhausted, and _afraid._ She just wanted to go home and sleep.

An hour later, Mila lay in bed with her leg propped up and encased in ice packs, dozing. Her phone buzzed once, twice, three times, insistently informing her of new text messages. She ignored it. If it was an emergency, they could call.

He called.

“Yura?”

“Um, hey.”

“’s it important?” she mumbled. “Sleeping.”

“Mila, I- I didn’t mean to laugh, I didn’t know you were hurt, I don’t- I didn’t-“

“Look, I get it, it’s fine,” Mila said. “I just… I don’t want to deal with this right now, okay?”

“I’m sorry, though!” Yuri’s voice wobbled. “I don’t want you to hate me too, please, Mila-“

 _Fuck._ For a moment, Mila almost hoped that Otabek was dead, so she wouldn’t have to murder him herself. The thought wedged itself into her heart and she gasped, she _didn’t_ think that, she didn’t want that, he was – he had been - her friend, Yuri loved him, she wouldn’t turn into something ashen and twisted.

“Yura, no, no, no,” she murmured, pushing away the stabbing pain in her chest and leg. “I know you didn’t mean it, I’m not- I’m a little upset, but it’s okay, we can talk about it later, yeah?”

“Yeah. Okay,” Yuri said, trying to hide a sob behind a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry. That was stupid. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

“Come over tomorrow before practice? Bring breakfast, I don’t want to cook.”

“Sure, yeah.”

“Goodnight, Yura.”

Something had to change, Mila decided. The Altins could think she was rude and delusional, the police could send her away with kind condescension and show up on her doorstep later, asking exactly _why_ she’d thought Otabek’s absence was more than an absence, what made her believe that the calls to Yakov had held more secrets than answers. Her drunken promise to hate him for both of them was slowly eating away at her soul, the ember of worry rotting into something foul and toxic with each passing day.

* * *

 

“Beka,” whispered Yuri. Otabek gave no sign of having heard him, but he didn’t want to raise his voice. He had a feeling that Otabek wouldn’t respond well to someone yelling at him right at that moment. “Beka, are you okay?”

A stupid question. Neither of them was okay, but it was what you were supposed to say, supposed to do, instead of checking the reinforced blinds that covered every window even though the sun wouldn’t rise for hours, instead of going through the stashes of emergency supplies hidden throughout the house. In control. He was in control. He could control himself.

Yuri wasn’t sure where Otabek was, how deep he was in memories.

“I’m going to touch your hand,” he murmured, waiting for a blink of acknowledgement. Something (that _something_ being the internet, because even with Otabek, reading social cues had never been Yuri’s most practiced skill) told him that it was possibly a bad idea to reach without warning.

Otabek nodded. Their fingers twined together. Yuri reminded himself not to hold too tight, afraid that Otabek might not mention or even notice the pain before something was broken, and whether or not it healed immediately was irrelevant to the fact that damage was done.

Minutes passed.

Yuri fought back thoughts of the basement, which still felt like safety, even though he’d moved out of it and away from the months of foggy grey memories years before.

They breathed, one of them because it was necessary for life, the other because the rhythm was still a calming focus even when it was merely recreational. Eventually, Otabek sighed, breaking the steady pattern.

“Beka, you back?”

“No,” Otabek replied, “but I’m here.”

Whatever the fuck that meant, but Yuri would take it.

“I’m sorry. I thought I could handle it.”

“So did I,” said Yuri. “I- she still- what she said to you, that wasn’t fair, and she still won’t let anything be my fault-“

His free hand was in his hair, tracing the back of his neck. _Oh,_ Yuri realized dimly. _This is a panic attack. Yay._

Otabek, who was somewhere beyond anxiety and had settled into an eerie calm, moved closer to Yuri. The touch helped chase away the ice.

“Tell me?”

That part of his mind was ugly, brutal, and efficient, and Yuri didn’t like to let it out for air. But he needed someone to understand, and Otabek would have to accept it at some point anyway. Maybe this could blunt the guilt waiting for him when he was _back_ as well as here.

“I _decided_ to go skating. I decided to keep skating even though I was too tired, and do jumps I’d promised not to do when I was by myself, and it doesn’t matter what was in my head because there’s always gonna be some fucking thing going wrong. All that, it was because of what I did, it has to be, otherwise…” Yuri fought to keep his voice level. If he started yelling, he might never stop. If he stopped talking, he might not be able to start again. “Otherwise it means that this stuff can just _happen,_ and there’s nothing I can do about it, I can’t stop it. I have to- if it’s because of what I did I can do better, I can be smarter, it won’t just- just be there. We can learn, we can be careful. But if it’s- if it’s not my fault, if accidents just happen, we can’t stay safe, no matter how smart Viktor is I don’t know if he’s going to come home when he leaves and it doesn’t matter how lucky I am, because luck runs out and then- then I’m really fucked.”

“Oh,” said Otabek, clearly understanding it but not _getting_ it, not yet. “I’d… I’d make a bad vampire. I don't make a good werewolf either. I can’t- I keep trying but I can’t make the right choice, I can’t find it. I thought this was right, but Mila hates me more. I thought leaving was right but I hurt you, I hurt her and I didn’t even realize it, I don’t know if my family-“

“I had a rulebook,” Yuri interjected, filling the gap when Otabek’s words suddenly ran dry. “It said ‘don’t do stupid, dangerous shit _._ ’ You were trying to play Mao blindfolded.”

“Mao?”

“The worst card game in existence.” Yuri grimaced. “People get to, like, make up their own rules, and not tell you what the hell is going on, and then you get in trouble when you fuck up, and apparently it’s _so much fun_ for everyone who can actually win a game.” He paused. “Last time someone made me play, I broke a table.”

“This was… recent?”

“I think I was sixteen.” Yuri didn’t blush - he wouldn’t have even if he could.

The anger was still there, and the fear it masked, but he could manage it now. Mila would have to listen to him eventually, because he wasn’t letting either of them go again, but they weren’t going to let it get out of control like that next time. If necessary, he’d somehow convince his therapist to mediate and have Viktor standing by with a spray bottle to enforce it. Maybe when the two of them were half-drowned, Otabek would be able to talk.

Otabek was shaking. It started as a shiver, but a few seconds later Yuri had to remind himself that it was impossible for someone to _literally_ fall to pieces. He held on to Otabek like he was able to hold him together.

So this was what coming back meant, what he’d hidden himself from.

“I’m so sorry,” Otabek whispered. “Yura, I’m so sorry, Mila’s right, I don’t- I’m not-“

 _I thought he understood,_ thought Yuri, biting back his panic. _How can he still think it’s his fault, how could he think that for so long, he_ knew _I was an idiot all along, he shouldn’t be mad at himself, he should be mad at-_

That was the piece he was missing, what Mila had been trying to say, what everyone but him had felt. He _died,_ left Mila for eight months and Otabek for nearly three years, and they’d missed him – of course they had, though he’d forgotten it during the darkest weeks. And then… he’d told them to blame him, looked them in the eyes and said that _he’d_ hurt them, and if he managed to get himself killed for real, it would be his fault.

They needed something to hate, to rail against, and Yuri had asked them to make it him – while they both believed they could have stopped it, and in different circumstances, they might have.

“Yura, please,” said Otabek in a choked whisper, “please tell me to leave, you need to make good choices, I’m not a good choice. I’m just- I’m just a distraction, it’s not worth it, _I’m_ not worth you getting hurt again, please.”

“Don’t fucking say that.” If Otabek hadn’t been clinging to him like he was afraid of drifting away, Yuri was sure his heart would have dropped out of his chest and shattered on the floor. “Beka, you’re having a panic attack, what you’re saying isn’t true, it isn’t real, and you’re not going anywhere because you said you wouldn’t leave unless I wanted you to and I _don’t want you to._ You promised. Beka, you promised to stay.”

“I can’t, Yura, I promised, but I _can’t_. I’m mortal, we know that no matter what else, and I’m going to die. I can’t stop it, I can’t get out of it, but you can, you don’t have to get hurt again. Please.”

For Yuri, tears were something that came and went. He tried to hide them if someone was looking, he felt them, but they didn’t fight _him_ as if they were being yanked from his body. Maybe it was because he cried a lot, a result of emotions that had always burned too close to the surface, a temper that he refused to control.

Crying… he had practice crying. He was a damn expert, and in the end, that made it easier. He was crying at that moment, and barely noticed.

Otabek’s gasped sob was torn out of his chest. It was harsh, violent, something that should have left blood and broken bones in its wake.

Time was supposed to come one second at a time, one grain of sand dropping through the hourglass, no more and no less, but that wasn’t how they felt. Sometimes it took months for an hour to pass, and sometimes days were packed into mere minutes, because emotion wasn’t a neat, linear thing that could be neatly folded and tied with a bow.

How many months of feelings waiting to be felt were hitting Otabek all at once? Yuri couldn’t even blame Mila, who had certainly been the catalyst but not the cause. He could only…

He could blame himself, for letting Otabek pull a stray dog from the canal. For calling, believing that things would only change if Otabek heard his voice, and snarling at Mila when she suggested he send an email. For letting Otabek think he was gone, letting him carry that pain and guilt and fear back to Almaty and then to Sweden – where, even if Yuri didn’t know exactly what had happened, he knew that surviving it had been a bet no gambler would ever take… and that without it Otabek might never have remembered that he used to be human, that he’d ever had a life to come back to.

What sweet irony it was, and how fitting – the medal-winning, record-breaking figure skater who broke his neck doing a simple toe loop, refusing to take his own advice about choice and free will.

Yuri didn’t know what to do. Otabek was in pain, he was fucking terrified, and Yuri couldn’t help any more than he could have helped Otabek in Malmö, hundreds of kilometers away.

So he texted Viktor with one hand, _come back,_ letting his phone fall against the cushions, and held on.

There was no way out but through.


	35. Chapter 35

“Where are you staying, Mila?”

“Hackescher Markt,” she muttered, staring out the window into the darkness. She was supposed to thank Viktor, or try to make him see that Otabek didn’t deserve whatever kindness had been offered, but Mila wasn’t sure that she could convince herself anymore. Nothing _fit._ He wasn’t lying, but he couldn’t be telling the truth. Yuri had forgiven even if he hadn’t forgotten, and however anxious Mila was about him, he’d begun to develop some modicum of self-preservation over the past couple of years.

She should have listened, but first she needed to be _heard,_ and Mila couldn’t quite explain why.

“So, talk,” said Viktor. She wasn’t sure if she’d spoken out loud or if her face told him everything. “If you don’t figure out what you’re trying to say, this is never going to work.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Mila replied, propping her knee against her bag to relieve the strain of travel and tension. “Yuri’s not going to let me come back after that.”

“You think so?”

“Otabek doesn’t want me there, so Yuri won’t either,” she spat. “Just drive me to the airport, I’ll catch a flight.”

Viktor hummed under his breath.

“No, I’m not going to do that,” he said. Mila blinked. “You know, Otabek was the one who wanted to tell you he’s here. Yuri was waiting until things were more settled – no, don’t look at me like that, it’s an instinct for us and he’s finally learning to listen to it. We can’t jump into things without being certain of where we’ll land. He didn’t let Otabek back in easily, by the way.”

“ _Otabek_ wanted… why? He had to know I wouldn’t be happy, not after everything he did.” She sighed. Then again, if Otabek had fought for Yuri instead of forcing himself into their lives, maybe it wasn’t a surprise that he would make a full run of it. “It’s not like I was nice to him before.”

She’d been brutal, senses numb and heart raw from forcing herself to say goodbye to Yuri, and horrified by the poison that had poured from her throat – the vitriol that didn’t seem to leave a mark, as Otabek watched her with impassive eyes. _You’re alone,_ he’d said without voicing a word, _you have to miss him by yourself. You could have done more._

“You’ll have to ask him to explain that.”

“Why the fuck should I trust him?” She couldn’t stop going in circles; couldn’t let him talk because she didn’t trust him, couldn’t trust him because he gave her nothing to believe. “He won’t even talk for himself! He just- he just cowered behind Yuri, and Yuri wasn’t saying shit.”

“You smile a lot when you’re worried,” Viktor said. Was he being an airhead, or did he have a point? It was impossible to tell most of the time. “Yuri yells. You both try to get a reaction when you think you’re being ignored.”

“… Yeah?”

“Somehow I don’t think that’s ever been Otabek’s first instinct. He likes to know what he’s going to say _before_ he says it, instead of hearing it as it comes out.”

Otabek was calm where Yuri was hotheaded. That was how their friendship had worked. That was how their relationship would have worked, if everything hadn’t fallen to pieces. Maybe it _was_ like that now, but Mila wouldn’t know, because Yuri had shut her out again.

Calm. Quiet.

One was peaceful inside, and the other was outwardly silent. They went together. Were they the same thing?

 _Tap-_ tap, _tap-_ tap, _tap-_ tap.

Yuri, reminding Mila that emotions made their presence known.

“Fuck,” she whispered, horror burning in the center of her chest. “I thought Otabek didn’t care, but he felt-“

“Everything,” Viktor agreed, quiet and sad. “I know he’s changed a lot, but he’s still the same person you were friends with.”

“I… oh god.” Something had slowed him, freezing his stoicism into a mask he hadn’t been able to drop, no matter what she screamed at him. “What _happened_?”

“If you ask, he might tell you.” _Might._ The implication was clear; Otabek owed her nothing, and if he gave her nothing, she had no grounds to complain. She’d given up her chance. “It hasn’t been an easy time for anyone, Mila, you included.”

No wonder Yuri hadn’t trusted her. She wanted someone to blame, but maybe they were all victims, all their own villains.

“You have every right to be mad at both of them. But when you’re angry with Yuri, don’t take it out on Otabek, okay?”

“I’m not mad at Yuri!”

“Really?” Viktor tapped the steering wheel thoughtfully. “He wasn’t fair to you either.”

“That wasn’t his fault.”

“Since when does that change anything?” Mila thought about Yakov’s grimace of a smile the few times he’d mentioned Viktor – it had been softer and sadder than any expression she’d seen him wear before, and she’d wondered what history lay behind them. “It was nearly a year before Yuri decided to tell you he was alive.”

There. That was why the ember of hatred and resentment still burned, because she _had_ to forgive him before she lost him again. Mila couldn’t even ask why – the answer might hurt too much, drive a wedge between them. It was easier to blame Otabek and the scars left by his absence.

They’d been stopped outside the hotel for at least several minutes. Mila, stuck in her own thoughts and lost in the still-unfamiliar streets of Berlin, took a moment to figure out where they were when Viktor glanced at his phone and frowned.

“That’s my cue. I booked some rink time for you tomorrow morning at the usual place, because I thought this might take longer than you were expecting.”

“I should go back. Give it some time.”

“You know what Yuri will think if you leave,” Viktor reminded her. “It’s not fair, but give it another day at least.”

Viktor smiled brightly and spoke softly. It was all too easy to forget that his scatterbrained good nature came with the wits to survive for as long as he had, and enough determination to go head to head with Yuri on his worst days and come out of it on equal footing.

Mila wondered when she became someone people had to be protected from.

* * *

_June 4, 2019_

Yuri let himself into her apartment before dawn. Mila, awoken several hours earlier by her newly-offset sleep schedule and the renewed ache of her knee, listened to him slam the door open, curse to himself, and close it gently enough to barely make a sound.

She put down the book she’d been reading, skimming the pages and absorbing nothing, as he peered into the bedroom.

“Morning, Yura.”

“This doesn’t count as morning,” he grumbled. “Eggs or pancakes?”

“Pancakes, of course,” Mila replied, grinning. “Hand me those crutches?”

Yuri picked them up off her bedroom floor, for once not commenting on the dirty clothes strewn across the carpet (hypocrite) as he hovered nervously, waiting for her to maneuver herself out of bed and not sure how to help.

He retrieved a bag of groceries from the hall and dumped it on the table, eyeing the mismatched assortment of candles scattered across its surface with a mixture of confusion and amusement.

“The fuck’s with all that?”

“Arcane magic,” Mila replied, wiggling her fingers at him and shoving them to one side, ignoring the wax crusted onto the wood. They’d been left over from her latest search, which had yielded the exact same lack of results, aside from a rather spectacular miniature fireworks display that had left a handful of tiny scorch marks across the ceiling. “Top secret, obviously.”

“Okay, Baba Yaga,” he snorted.

The first couple of pancakes were undercooked; the next were slightly burned. It wasn’t like Yuri, who seemed to have inherited his grandfather’s culinary sixth sense, even if his recipes were often sabotaged by overenthusiastic experimentation and impatience.

“Yura, you remember in the Olympics, when Sara fell in her free skate?” He nodded, stirring a spoonful of jam into his tea. “For a second, I was relieved, because I knew it meant I’d get a spot on the podium. Then I hated myself for it.”

“That’s different, though.” He played with a lump of wax, carving off slivers with his thumbnail. “We weren’t competing. I’m just-“

 _Cruel,_ his face said. _I’ll chase everyone away eventually, even you._

“ _Human,_ Yura,” she said, cutting him off. “You hurt my feelings, but I know it wasn’t really about me falling, you were frustrated. Besides, you apologized and made me pancakes. You’re not a bad person.”

“What if I am, though? What if that’s why Be- _Otabek_ left, he couldn’t deal with me anymore and I wouldn’t leave him alone, and he ran off to Canada or whatever even if switching coaches fucked up his training enough that he had to miss competitions, he hated being near me that much because I’m…”

“We need to find out,” Mila said firmly. “We can’t- _you_ can’t keep doing this. Do you have a way to contact his family?”

“I blocked his sister’s number,” Yuri whispered. “I kept almost calling her, but she- I knew she’d lie to me if he asked her to, and I wanted… I wanted _him_ to tell me.”

“He’s not going to, Yura,” she sighed. “We both know that now. Is there any way-“

“I don’t…” Yuri paused and bit his lip. “Yeah, there is.”

* * *

**VN:** On my way. Forty minutes.

 

Yuri could feel Otabek shaking under the stress of _feeling_ instead of containing, and he murmured something trivial and useless. It didn’t matter what he said, because Yuri couldn’t promise that it would be okay, that the storm would pass – even if everything could work out, damage had already been done.

On some level, he’d known that Otabek had only ever managed to come to a stalemate with his fears; you couldn’t look a dragon in the eye without first taking a few steps back. And that part… it was messy, ugly, and painful, and felt an awful lot like falling apart. In a way, it was, and the pieces would never fit back together in quite the same way, but the cracks had formed long before. One could try to pretend that nothing had changed, but make-believe made a poor glue.

He kept talking, pressing soft kisses to Otabek’s forehead, combing his fingers through thick, dark hair until it fanned into a mess of irregular tufts, and smoothed it back again. Otabek leaned into Yuri, letting his tears fall freely. He never did anything halfway.

Part of Yuri crept towards understanding, and he fought it back, locking that particular demon back in its cage. In a purely academic sense, Yuri knew that though he wouldn’t age, he certainly wasn’t going to live forever – and god, if he did, what a nightmare it would turn into – but acceptance of that could wait until he was over his first death, thank you very much.

“I’m not going to ask you to leave, Beshka,” whispered Yuri after what felt like forever, but Viktor wasn’t home yet, so must have been less than forty minutes. “No one blames you except for you, even Mila has to know she’s not being reasonable. And if they did, it still wouldn’t be your fault.”

The only response Otabek was able to summon was an almost imperceptible nod, not lifting his head from where it rested against Yuri’s chest.

“I don’t think I could have done any of what you did,” he continued quietly. “You keep saying you fucked everything up, but you made it through, and that means you did a lot of stuff right. You wouldn’t believe some of the shit I got into, but Viktor never thought I didn’t deserve help. You should have had that too, but you did the best you could anyway.”

Otabek’s body had remembered that it was a cohesive whole, no longer fracturing from the inside out – his breath was still ragged and uneven, but it steadied as he relaxed, tension visibly dissipating. He’d calmed down surprisingly quickly.

“Beka?” Yuri blinked in astonishment. “Oh my god, you dork, you went straight from breakdown to stress nap. I can’t believe you.”

Apparently, that was Otabek’s thing now. Shapeshifting? Time to sleep. Long therapy session? Goodnight. Being blamed for his boyfriend’s death by someone who used to be a sister? Bedtime. He’d passed out almost immediately after their first actual post-everything conversation, too, falling asleep sitting on Yuri’s floor with his face smushed against the bedframe.

Yuri tried not to worry about the amount of time Otabek spent sleeping, about how tired he remained despite it. It was normal, it didn’t have to mean anything, and he probably slept less than Yuri anyway. The thoughts crept back anyway, and he hoped that Viktor wouldn’t take too much longer. _That he would come back at all,_ his anxiety commented, _because you never really know, do you?_

He eased into a better position, managing to maneuver so that Otabek was lying down instead of hunched over, and checked his phone - thirty-two minutes since Viktor had texted him. If he wasn’t home in another thirteen minutes, Yuri would call. He could call at any time because Viktor understood about the oily fears that slithered into Yuri’s mind, had been there for the scattered hours that Yuri wasn’t able to cope with being in a room by himself.

The familiar hum of Viktor’s car came into earshot four minutes later. Thirty-nine minutes after the text message, he opened the front door.

“Mila’s staying in town,” he said, the words punctuated with a couple of soft thunks that must have been him kicking his shoes off in the hall. “I think she’ll be ready to listen soon.”

“Okay,” Yuri replied as Viktor stepped into the living room. He kept his voice low, but avoided the hiss of whispers. Trial and error had taught him that Otabek would wake up immediately at ‘sneaky’ sounds, but not if Yuri managed to be quiet without _trying_ to be quiet. “I don’t… I don’t know if Beka will want to talk to her. I don’t know if he should.”

“Is he-“

“Not really.” He brushed a strand of Otabek’s hair back into place. Even asleep, he looked exhausted.

“Are you okay?”

Yuri shook his head.

“Not… not really.”

* * *

_June 5, 2019_

Yuri showed up at Mila’s door the next morning with a string of numbers and a pair of names.

“You broke into Yakov’s office?”

“He gave me a key.” He smirked, obviously trying for cool and collected, but the flush of rule-breaking was high on his cheeks and bright in his eyes.

“To the _rink,_ ” Mila replied, a broad grin spreading across her face. “Look at you, all grown up and committing misdemeanors.”

This would be it. It had to be. If Otabek’s parents had been in contact with him recently, her fears were correct and he’d just up and left. The _why_ of it all, from his absence to her failed spells, could be determined later. She’d get those answers and remind him that no one fucked with her family, whether they were bound by blood or ice.

Or… he was really gone, and the phone calls to Yakov would turn out to be the last thing anyone ever heard from Otabek Altin, his own voice used to throw them off track.

In that case, Mila would tell everyone. She’d tell Yuri before his heartbreak could shift to hate, convince the Altins that they had to listen to her, throw spells and sparklers until _someone_ helped her find out what happened. Her reputation and career – what was left of it, anyway – would be burned to the ground, and a lot of people with a _lot_ of power would be quite unhappy with her indiscretion, but Mila couldn't bring herself to care. One of her best friends was missing, and she missed him. Everyone he left behind needed closure… and someone needed to pay.

“You have to do it,” Yuri mumbled, refusing to meet her eyes. “They’ll all recognize my voice. And he knows my phone number.”

“Okay, Yura.” It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Yuri should be brash, loud, and demanding – or, when he thought no one was looking, clumsily kind; he was never, _never_ meant to be someone who questioned every word and action, who weighed his worth and found it wanting.

“Let’s use the phone in the lobby,” Mila said, glancing at Yuri. “I don’t want to wreck my mobile bill with international calls.”

Mercifully, her building had a lift, and the usual horde of little old ladies who made their calls to far-off children and grandchildren were out on their meandering grocery trips, leaving the foyer mostly empty empty. Mila handed a few rubles to the all-in-one doorman/security guard/receptionist who spent his shifts napping by the door. He yawned, bleary and disgruntled, pointing them towards the phone that hung beside the manager’s empty office.

“I’ll find a chair before you fuck up your knee more,” said Yuri, pointedly looking anywhere except the handset Mila had removed from its hook. It was the first time she’d ever seen him avoid something he was afraid of, instead of throwing himself against it with all his might. She shouldn’t have involved him. She could have done this herself.

Mila’s fingers shook.

Maybe she couldn’t have.

“Don’t be silly, I can stand for a few minutes. It’s just sore.”

They both winced as harsh ringing blared from the speaker, which had been adjusted for ears older and deafer than their own. Mila held the earpiece as far away as she could – at least they’d both be able to hear.

_Please pick up, please-_

“Сәлеметсіз бе?”

* * *

“I don’t know what to do,” Yuri said, his fingers skimming Otabek’s cheek with a ghost-soft touch. _I don’t either,_ Viktor wanted to confess. Had pulling Mila away been the right choice, and had what he’d said in the car made any difference? “I don’t- I thought I did, but I can’t ask him to talk to her again, and I’m not sure I want to.”

Viktor lowered himself onto the couch, squeezing in between Yuri and the armrest. Even at this distance, he could feel the heat radiating from Otabek.

“Did you ever talk to Mila about why you waited to tell her you were okay?”

“She knows,” mumbled Yuri. “She knows I was having problems, and I treated her like shit.”

Judging from Mila’s reaction during their drive to Mitte, Viktor wasn’t so sure that she understood. However, that could be dealt with later. He glanced at Otabek, who turned his face into Yuri’s hand without waking.

“She got to him?”

“Everything got to him,” replied Yuri. “Beka, he- he asked me to make him leave.”

 _Otabek, you anxious idiot, I told you I could worry about Yuri,_ Viktor thought, struggling not to roll his eyes in sympathetic exasperation. _You’re not helping anyone here, so can you please refrain from telling someone with severe abandonment issues to throw you out?_

“He said he was going to die. He’s never… he’s never said it before, not really, not like that.” Otabek looked younger when he was asleep, like the kid he was supposed to be. “Viktor, what you said before. You think he’s wrong about it. You think we- we have time.”

Yuri’s gaze was pleading, and Viktor fought back the urge to phone any one of the long list of people who could give them an answer right away, bit his lip to keep from blurting out _there aren’t enough bites._ They’d asked him to leave it be.

He couldn’t offer hope, but maybe perspective would be close enough.

“I think that Otabek’s opinion is biased,” Viktor said carefully, after checking to make sure that Otabek was well and truly unconscious. “There’s evidence for everything. Some shapeshifters take on aspects of their other forms, and healing like that is usually associated with… longevity, but not always. Otabek seems to have a tendency to take facts and extrapolate, and some of his leaps in logic are rather astounding if you look at them objectively. Your initial difficulties, for instance.”

Yuri relaxed a little at Viktor’s words. It was enough, then. He didn’t have to break his promise, and he didn't have to push Otabek into something he wasn’t ready for.

“I’ll get you something to eat, okay? It looks like you’re stuck there for a while.”

* * *

**VN:** Help me, Yuuri.

 **KY:** are you ok??

 **VN:** I’ve dealt with two consecutive crises, and there’s a third incoming. I am not qualified for this. Who let me raise children? Why did they do this?  
**KY:** i’m sure you’re doing a great job  <3

 **VN:** I never adopted a dog because I was afraid I wasn’t responsible enough, and I have to be the adult here because they expect me to be. I just want everyone to be happy while I watch terrible soap operas in languages I don’t speak.

 **KY:** i’m not busy until tonight, want me to come over?

 **VN:** Please.

* * *

_June 5, 2019_

“Сәлеметсіз бе?”

“Um. Здравствуйте,” she replied, assuming that the man who answered had said something along the lines of _hello_ or _who the hell is this_? At least they spoke Russian (and probably English, and knowing Otabek, at least a couple more on top of that) as well as Kazakh – this would be even harder if she couldn’t even communicate with them. “Is this the Altin household?”

“Yes, that’s us!” Mila could hear the teasing smile in the man’s voice as he asked, “Are you going to tell me who you are, or am I supposed to guess?”

 _His dad,_ Yuri mouthed. She nodded. He sounded cheerful, which had to be a good sign. Or… not the worst sign, at least.

“I’m a- um, I’m a friend of Otabek’s,” she told him, trying not to sound unsure. “I haven’t heard from him in a while, and I wanted to just… check in?”

“Ah, of course.” His tone cooled slightly, becoming polite and distant, and Yuri let out a soft hiss of pain and dismay. “If you’re looking for an interview, I’m afraid I’ll have to direct you to his public email, but-“

“Oh!” Mila mentally slapped herself. Otabek was famous, for a figure skater – he was generally left alone in Russia, but in Kazakhstan… She’d been too busy worrying about Otabek, thinking about who he was to her and Yuri that she had forgotten who _he_ was. “No, I’m sorry, I’m not a reporter or a fan- I mean, he’s a great skater but- this is Mila Alekseyevna Babicheva, we trained together. I should have introduced myself.”

She hadn’t wanted to introduce herself. Some of Yuri’s anxiety had trickled into her mind, but Mila had a rationale beyond a broken heart: Otabek knew what she was, because she’d never attempted to hide it, and must have been keeping _that_ little getting-to-know-you detail to himself for the past couple of years.

“Miss Babicheva, I should have guessed! Beka’s mentioned you quite a lot – it sounds like you’ve made quite the impression on him,” he said with a chuckle. In contrast, Mila’s heart was pounding so fiercely in her chest that she wished she’d taken up Yuri’s offer of a chair. Yuri, beside her, was pale and shaking. A drop of blood rested on his lip where he’d bitten it raw. “This is his father, Erlan.”

“Nice to meet you,” Mila replied weakly. “So he’s- he’s fine, then? I emailed him, and he never got back to me, and I guess I panicked a little. Sorry for bothering you.”

“Oh, don’t worry! Beka’s usually so good at keeping in touch, but he’s out on that bike of his,” sighed Erlan. “We were hoping he’d take it easy for a while, but our Beka’s never been one for time off. He and his mother, they always have to keep busy. But yes, he’s perfectly well, making the most of it – rang us this morning sounding like he’d been up all night, said he got a gig at a club.”

“Sounds like Beka,” she said, forcing a laugh. She choked as it turned to dust in her mouth.

“I’ll tell him you called, then?”

Yuri grabbed her elbow, shaking his head frantically.

“No, that’s fine, I’ll try again later. I don’t want to… to bother him.”

“I’m sure he’ll get back to you in a couple of days,” Erlan reassured her. “It’s very kind of you to check on him, Mila.”

“Yeah, uh. I guess I’d better get going,” she answered. “I- thanks. Bye.”

* * *

Otabek woke with scratchy eyes and a headache that thumped feebly against the base of his skull. It was a new kind of exhaustion to add to his list, one that reminded him of catching the flu as a child, of the morning his fever broke, leaving him weak-kneed and trembling.

He pushed himself upright. His ears burned as he took in Yuri, who had evidently been pinned to the couch by Otabek’s impromptu nap and decided to make the most of the situation by falling asleep himself. A half-empty mug of cooled, congealed blood rested precariously on the end table.

It was tempting to curl up next to Yuri again, but something urged him to move. Otabek picked up the mug and left it in the sink, preventing Yuri from waking up, trying to drink it out of habit, and giving the carpet company more business.

The fear was an abscess deep under his skin, slowly but surely poisoning his blood as he fought to ignore it. Once, it had been a reassurance, whispering _come on, get up, what else have you got to lose, what else other than a few days or months or years you already wish were over, why are you so afraid, what else have you got?_

 _Nothing,_ he’d replied, and dragged himself awake, back to humanity, through life. He’d chased ghosts and demons, running after the hint of Yuri’s voice, because there was nothing left to lose. Then, the _nothing_ had become _everything,_ desperate wings morphing to chains and endings.

The fever, the infection, had broken. It would be back – Otabek held no illusions that his current composure was anything more lasting than the shock of catharsis – but he’d become adept at using the few moments of clarity as they came.

A few containers of food had been neatly stacked in the bottom shelf of the fridge, labeled neatly in English: _Otabek, please help yourself. Phichit and I cooked too much! The top one is chicken, bottom is veggie. – Yuuri K._

He wanted to see this thing through, Otabek decided, picking a tub of food at random and tossing it in the microwave (several seconds later, he rescued it and pried the lid off before starting to heat it once more). He didn’t have to. He didn’t need Mila’s forgiveness, or her blessing, and when it came down to it, whether she remembered him as a fool or a monster made little difference. However, now that the ash had settled, Otabek knew what he wanted to say.

If he wanted to be able to say it, something would have to change. On their own, Yuri and Mila would burn themselves out, but together…

It was about five in the morning. Yuri would have time to sleep off his consternation, and he needed Mila’s phone number anyway.

“Yura,” he murmured, “Yura, wake up.”

Yuri opened his eyes without a trace of grogginess and grabbed for where the cup of blood had been sitting several minutes earlier.

“Beka, how are you doing?”

“Managing,” said Otabek with a shrug. “Thank you. I’m sorry I said… all that.”

“As long as you know you were being a dumbass.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not the term Dr. Schäfer would use,” he retorted.

“Dammit, Beka, I’m a vampire, not a doctor.” Yuri stretched, hooking his foot around Otabek’s knee and pulling him back onto the couch. “I wish you’d told me about what she said before. I… that wasn’t... I would have really fucking preferred it if neither of us had to do that, because holy shit.”

“I know. I should have,” said Otabek, rubbing the back of his neck as he leaned into Yuri. He should have, but he’d hoped Mila hadn’t meant it the first time. That she’d be calm enough to listen to him, or if not to him, then to Yuri and Viktor. That Otabek wouldn’t have to make Yuri hear about how his all-but-sister had found him at his lowest, and sunk a dagger into his chest to make sure he couldn’t get up again. “Communication?”

“Fucking communication,” Yuri agreed. “She’s still in town, and I’m ready to tell her to get the hell out of our city.”

“Not yet.” Otabek changed the subject as Yuri’s face twisted into a scowl. “I don’t understand why she couldn’t find me, if she was using magic.”

“I asked Viktor,” replied Yuri, suitably distracted by the new topic. “If… it sounds like she was using your hair, which fuck, that’s really creepy, but you weren’t home for very long after you changed, right?”

“Only a few minutes, I think.”

“Viktor thinks it’s because you literally changed species. She was looking for human-you, but-“

“Human-me wasn’t there,” breathed Otabek. Mila had been searching for someone, some _thing,_ who didn’t exist anymore. No wonder she’d assumed he was dead – in a way, he had been. “I want to talk to her again.”

“You don’t-“

“I know.”

“I think it’s-“

“I know.”

“I- but,” stuttered Yuri. “We’re doing it differently this time, though. That didn’t work.”

“Yeah,” Otabek agreed. “Yura, I want to talk to her by myself.”

Yuri stared at him.

“I can’t keep up with both of you,” he explained. “And… we’re both going to say things because we feel them, even if they’re not true. They’re going to piss you off, and there’s no reason for you to hear them. It won’t help anything.”

“This is a really bad idea, Beka. Like, fucking awful,” Yuri told him. “You almost turned into a wolf!”

“The second I think I might not be able to handle it, I’ll walk away.”

“What if she doesn’t let you? At least let Viktor go with you.”

“I want to do this as soon as possible,” he demurred. “Before sunset, if possible. I thought… You said Christophe owes me a favor. Even if we waited, Viktor would want to get involved, and Mila will act differently if he’s there. So will I. Chris is more neutral, because he doesn’t particularly like me either.”

Yuri buried his face in a throw pillow and screamed.

* * *

_June 5, 2019_

The soft _click_ of the phone felt like the end of an era, a line they could never fall back behind once they’d passed.

Otabek was alive, unhurt.

It seemed like _Beka_ had never existed.

Silent tears were rolling down Yuri’s face.

“I’m sorry, Yura,” Mila murmured, resting her hand on his shoulder and trying not to collapse to the floor from relief. Otabek was okay; an asshole, but okay, and that had to be better. She’d make him regret every breath he’d ever taken, but she didn’t have to tell Yuri that he was dead. “At least we know now, right?”

“Know _what?_ ” Yuri tore himself away from her touch. Mila winced as she overbalanced, putting too much weight on her bad knee. “We don’t know _shit,_ we don’t know why he left, why he won’t answer, I don’t know anything except that I’m not worth the two seconds it would take for him to say he never wants to see me again!”

“And _he’s_ not worth wondering about it,” she told him. Yuri was still hurting so much, and he couldn’t let go. He needed to know that Otabek didn’t deserve a single tear. And she… she was so tired. The weight had lifted and redoubled, crushing her under the strain. “You know he didn’t leave because of you, Yura, no one does that, you’re being-”

“Pathetic?” Yuri sneered. “Whiny? Self-centered? Of course, _no one does that,_ that’s why I have a nice little nuclear family like you – oh, wait, that’s right, that’s why dad’s not even on my birth certificate and mom fucked off before I could walk so I didn’t mess up her chance at a trophy husband and two normal kids who wouldn’t be useless by the time they’re thirty. Or _twenty._ ”

“Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that,” Mila gasped. No wonder he was taking it so hard, even if she hadn’t heard him mention his parents more than once in the seven years they’d known each other. “I just meant- Otabek has his reasons, and they’re fucked up, but I’m sure they’re not about you.”

“Yeah,” he snarled, “because why would I be that important to him? Fucking stupid of me, considering that my best friend might even think about me.”

“Let’s go back upstairs, okay? I understand how you feel, but-“

But this wasn’t fair to either of them. She was doing her best, but Yuri wanted her to be Otabek, to bring him back, and she _couldn’t._

Mila shifted her weight, leaning against the wall. Her knee hurt so much.

“You just want me to shut up,” he shouted. Yuri’s flush of anger was fading into a sickly pallor that contrasted with the irritated pink of his eyes. “You don’t fucking understand, because you have friends and a girlfriend and a family, people _like_ you even when you don’t win gold, except I can’t even remember the last time you missed the podium and you’re not even worried about this year. But I had two good seasons before it all went to shit and half my sponsors are probably ready to dump me if I don’t pull myself together in the Grand Prix, because everyone fucking knows how it goes with Russian prodigies! We don’t _last._ ”

“Yura-“

“Who do you think is gonna stick around then, Mila? Grandpa, and we might not even be able to make rent,” he growled, face twisting. “Oh, but you _understand_ , because Otabek was your friend too and you have a sore knee.” Mila stared at the floor, flinching as Yuri inhaled sharply. “You told me it was just a strain. You promised it was fine, you said you’d barely even miss practice, you- you-“

“I will be, it is,” she cut in, trying not to let the growing pain show on her face. “But it… fuck, it’s going to get worse, and I didn’t want to think about it, okay?”

“So you’re leaving too,” Yuri whispered. “When were you going to tell me? Or _were_ you, were you just going to retire?”

“I’m _not_ retiring-“

            _Not yet,_ Mila wanted to say, but Yuri didn’t seem to hear her.

            “You promised you wouldn’t leave and I believed you,” he spat. “Fool me twice, I guess. You’re such a fucking bitch.”

            The world ground to a halt. Mila’s blood turned to ice as Yuri’s eyes widened at his own outburst. The doorman was watching them with barely-veiled interest.

            “Yuri Plisetsky, you need to back off right now,” she barked, “because I have been trying to help you, and the last few weeks have been absolutely awful, and you don’t get to throw it all back in my face when I can’t fix everything!”

            At that moment, it didn’t matter how much Yuri was hurting, that he couldn’t actually believe anything he’d said, that as much as he pretended to be angry, it was only a thin veneer hiding fear and loneliness. There was a line, and if he was smart, he’d drop to the ground and beg for forgiveness.

            Yuri turned and walked away. She saw him break into a run as he stepped out of the main door.

            The doorman rose from his chair and hobbled over to her.

            “That one’s a piece of work, isn’t he,” the old man commented. “Are you all right, dear? Do you need some help getting back up to your apartment? I know all about knees, let me tell you.”

            “He’s just-“ Mila was supposed to defend Yuri, but what could she say? _He’s just Yuri._ “I’ll be fine. Thank you.”

            “Don’t worry, miss, the door can watch itself for a few minutes.”

            He accompanied her, patting her elbow kindly and retrieving the keys when she dropped them while fumbling with her crutches and the lock. Once inside, Mila barely managed to stagger over to the couch before collapsing with blurry, stinging eyes.

            _You were supposed to follow him_ , a sly little voice whispered. _He wanted you to follow him._

            Mila growled under her breath. She couldn’t have followed Yuri when she could barely walk, and he knew that as well as she did – or he would, once the aftermath of what she used to think of as his temper tantrums and now recategorized as anxiety attacks – had faded. She’d spent enough time chasing after Yuri, smiling at his harsh rebuffs, pushing back her own problems because he needed her even if he wouldn’t admit it.

_You’re such a fucking bitch._

            That had hurt more than the final realization that Beka had never really been their friend. Mila could live with that, because Yuri was right: she had her family, Sara, a handful of others… and Yuri. Yuri, for whom she could never be enough, and unless something changed, she wasn’t sure how long she could keep trying no matter how much she loved him. He would always push her away. Maybe, after this, he would push everyone away.

* * *

            Christophe met him beside the train station in Hackescher Markt, and gave Otabek a once-over that was both curious and dispassionate.

            “Werewolf, hmm?” He spoke in French. “That makes sense. Since you left skating?”

            “Yes,” replied Otabek shortly. He hadn’t counted on the business of the market at lunch, even in the middle of January. It was too much, too close, rushing and whirling around him. A woman pushed past him, eyes flicking over Otabek with suspicion as something in her instincts insisted _predator, danger,_ and he held back a hiss of pain as her silver ring brushed his forearm.

            “Text Mila and tell her you’ll be at Katjes Café on Rosenthaler Straße, she knows where it is,” Chris told him. “I would prefer not to spend more time near the station than necessary. You use too much iron in your trains.”

            “How do you live in a city?” Otabek asked, sending the message with their new meeting location to Mila. She’d agreed to his request quickly, her answers terse and distant.

            “With difficulty,” said Chris, enigmatic as always. “Dual citizenship has its perks, but they don’t last forever.”

            “You’re a changeling,” Otabek murmured. The few fae he’d met had stayed on the edges of their small towns, or they’d crossed paths on the road, far away from iron and industry, and they’d been much less… human. Those encounters had left Otabek gasping for breath, his mind struggling to comprehend the fluid shifting of their features, which were at once too smooth and too sharp, shimmering with colors his eyes couldn’t see and the promise of so much more if he would just step closer, if he would just follow them deeper into the woods – but, when he leaned in, he’d seen the twists of bark and leaves in place of skin, the glitter of scales and ice, and strains of music that echoed through their voices. They would have been beautiful had it not been for their cold disregard. “But… you have a twin, I thought?”

            “More or less,” Chris confirmed. He seemed oddly pleased that Otabek had worked it out, as if it had been a game they were playing. Maybe, for him, it was. “There wasn’t so much of a change, as Mom decided she couldn’t trust someone who would give up their baby with any children at all. So, big journey to Fairyland, lots of riddles, and she came back with two kids and a shared custody arrangement. I’d like a croissant and a green tea.”

            “Okay, I- what?”

            “Croissant. Green tea. I’ll be over there with my book while you two chat,” Chris said, gesturing to an empty table in the corner. “I don’t suppose you’ll be sticking with English?”

            “If I need some space, I’ll just go, and you stop Mila from following me,” replied Otabek, resigning himself to buying Chris at least a couple of drinks. “You don’t have to listen.”

            “Oh, I just wanted to eavesdrop,” Chris informed him with a grin, before wincing a little as Otabek gave in and ordered a double espresso as well. “Viktor wasn’t exaggerating about the caffeine, was he?”

            Otabek sighed. Being admonished for his coffee intake by semi-fae Christophe Giacometti in a Berlin café while waiting for a witch to show up and yell at him was not exactly how he expected his life to go, but on the whole, it was a lot better than he’d been preparing for.

            He took a seat in the front and waited, sipping the espresso. Should he have ordered something for Mila? That would have been polite, especially since Otabek remembered her usual orders. Unless her tastes had changed. She’d probably accuse him of poisoning it, anyway. Or dump it on his head. It _could_ set a more civil tone, though, and he was early, so maybe he had time to get something-

            Mila walked in, and it would have been like looking in a mirror if Otabek had been a tall, white redhead with blue eyes and a knee brace. Dark smears of exhaustion were painted across the hollows of her face, casting her usually soft features into sharp relief. She took the other seat without a word.

            “Chris is here,” Mila said eventually. “Why?”

“Damage control,” Otabek replied tersely, instead of the more verbose _because it will be very awkward if I have an anxiety attack and turn into a wolf in the middle of Berlin._

After another minute, she met his eyes.

“You let me say it. All of it. You didn’t stop me.”

 _All of it._ Otabek’s stomach lurched. That Yuri hadn’t cared when he left, that he wouldn’t be buried under the Moscow soil if not for him, while he stood frozen in the hotel hallway, heart frozen in his chest, because why should it remember to beat in a world that could tear away someone so alive without a moment’s warning?

The spark of anger flared and reignited.

“You could have told me,” she whispered, pleading. “I wanted to be wrong. I wanted you to tell me I was wrong.”

“I didn’t think you were,” Otabek said flatly. How could he have known that Yuri was calling him, that Yuri spent an instant missing him instead of being angry at his absence?

“You-“

“I saw you and I was so relieved,” he continued. “I thought… you love him too, and you knew how I feel. He was gone, and for the first time in months, I thought I was near a friend. I needed someone, I needed _you,_ and you told me…”

“What was I supposed to think?” Mila cried. “The calls went through, your dad said you were fine, I emailed you, I looked for you, and there wasn’t anything!”

“We were friends,” he retorted, and _god,_ Otabek didn’t want to be angry, but after nearly three years it was sprouting from a seed to a sapling because he hadn’t deserved that, he hadn’t deserved any of it, no matter how young and careless and stupid he’d been. “You could have given me a second chance.”

“I was so scared,” she whispered. “I looked for you every way I could think of, and I thought- I thought you’d been kidnapped, and murdered, and those phone calls to Yakov had been made with a gun to your head. I couldn’t tell anyone, because no one who could do anything would believe me, and I thought it was too late to do anything anyway. Yuri didn’t know. He kept asking me if I thought you were okay, and I couldn’t say anything except yes, not without trying to convince him I was a witch and breaking his heart by telling him I thought you were dead. For _weeks._ I promised to hate you so Yuri wouldn’t have to, so if you were gone he wouldn’t destroy himself with guilt. And then you were just… you were fine.”

“I’m sorry.” Otabek meant it. He didn’t want to imagine what it would be like if their positions had been reversed, desperately searching for Mila without a clue of where or why she’d left, losing the last remnants of hope as days and months passed. But… “I wasn’t fine.”

“What happened?” Mila sounded close to tears, and Otabek held his cup tight with trembling fingers, the slow burn of scalding espresso holding him fast. “Why did you have to leave without telling us?”

Past experience told him that this would be where he lost all sympathy, that the dawning horror in her eyes would replace every newborn trace of goodwill with fear – fear of him, fear that she would become like him. That with one bite, her life would be destroyed as thoroughly as his had been, and who would ever trust a monster’s teeth?

But… he didn’t need her. If Mila ran out the door, Yuri would still be there, Viktor would still open his home. Maybe, eventually, his family would stand behind him, like Nikolai Plisetsky stood by his grandson.

“I woke up on Krestovsky Island after the full moon,” Otabek said, soft and monotone as the memories writhed against his skull. “I was… different, and I didn’t know how or why, just that the only chance I had was to fix it before anyone found out.”

“The dog bite,” she whispered. “I called them, I tracked down the packs and asked if they’d- if anyone- they said no, not for years, and hung up on me, you can’t… they came and found you, and you didn’t say anything?”

“No. They never came back,” he replied. The werewolf who bit him couldn’t have remembered, Otabek thought, lost in the icy water and growing panic, they wouldn’t have just left him alone and scared… but then, everyone else had, with no sympathy to spare for a lost werewolf. “I left that morning. No one ever came back to help me.”

Mila jumped from her seat, almost knocking it over, and ran out the door.

* * *

_June 17, 2019_

Yuri didn’t talk to her.

Sometimes, he’d half-turn and his lips would part, and each time, Mila would think that this was it, he’d finally forgiven her, he’d finally apologize.

Each time, she was wrong.

He turned away again, face twisted into a scowl, without saying a word.

Eventually, Mila decided that a grudge just wasn’t worth it, wasn’t worth losing Yuri, and approached him.

Once more, he walked away, eyes fixed on the ceiling as he stumbled over his feet.

 

She pulled Yakov aside after practice one afternoon.

“He’s not doing well, you can see that,” Mila whispered, after checking to make sure Yuri was nowhere in earshot. “He needs something and he won’t let me help him.”

“Mila, Yuri is an adult,” Yakov said wearily. “I can’t force him to do anything.”

“You can ask him,” she insisted. “Lilia can ask him. He listens to her. Or call his grandfather, he’ll understand, if he tells Yuri to go to therapy-“

“We’re doing what we can.”

“You could make him talk to someone,” Mila pressed on. “Tell him- tell him he has to talk to a doctor, and he’s off the ice until he does.”

“An ultimatum?” Yakov sighed. “Yuri would be packed and ready to go before I stopped talking. Go home, Mila.”

She went home.

* * *

Mila didn’t go far. Otabek could see her through the café’s front window, clutching the rim of a garbage can set by the lamppost. After a moment’s thought, he followed her out.

“Sorry,” Mila mumbled. As a child, Otabek thought that no one would ever actually turn green when they were sick – after all, his family merely turned a shade or two paler, protected from the rainbow of indignity. Mila, however, had a definite tinge. “Thought I was gonna… didn’t want to throw up on their floor.”

A pair of elderly Germans strolled by, sniffing with disdain. They were apparently used to Russians retching into their trash bins. Chris waved at him through the window, content to remain put so long as they didn’t stray too far.

“Um,” Otabek offered. The rush that had carried him through was receding, leaving him stranded. He’d said everything – not what he’d originally planned, which had been closer to pleading for some form of absolution she could never have granted anyway – and the relief was being slowly sucked back into the old standards of guilt and shame. “We can sit down?”

If he was at home (at some point, Otabek had stopped thinking of it as _Viktor’s house_ and started calling it _home_ ), he would have retreated into a quiet room for a nap or some good ol’ fashioned dissociation, but passing out in the middle of the street was generally frowned upon, in his experience.

“I’m sorry. I… I wish I’d helped you,” Mila said.

“You didn’t know,” replied Otabek. He refused to think about what it might have been like if his foggy, grief-stricken brain had connected the smell of magic lingering in the air with Mila, if he’d dug up some last scrap of trust and told her everything. She didn’t seem to be afraid of the wolf, and if he’d broken through her pain and rage…

He might not have gone to Sweden, leaving his family in the agonizing limbo of hope and despair. He might not have sunk so far into the depths of depression, and managed to save a few friendships before they crumbled irreparably. Otabek would have found out that Yuri was alive in all the ways that really mattered when Mila did, saving them both years of anguish, giving them so much more time than they might have left-

“I didn’t tell you,” he said instead, dragging his thoughts from the dark pit of contemplation, because that chance was gone. Things might have been different, but they weren’t, and they would never be. He hadn’t told her, and she hadn’t asked.

They sat on a nearby bench, both exhausted by what could have been, collapsing like puppets with cut strings.

“When did Yura tell you?”

“He didn’t,” Otabek informed her. “I found him. I heard his voice in the video, the one from the bar fight, and spent a couple of months tracking him down.”

“Shit,” she murmured. “You didn’t ask Nikolai?”

 _That_ would have made things simpler.

“I didn’t know he was a vampire,” he said softly. “I thought he was… something else.”

“Something else, huh?”

“Not Yura.”

“How did you find him? He could have been anywhere.”

“Tracing it to Germany was pretty easy.” It had been the simplest part, at least, replaying the clip until every second of it was burned into his memory, forcing himself to ignore Yuri’s voice in favor of the indistinct susurrus of the background noise, narrowing it from _Germanic_ to _German-speaking_ and finally to Germany. Dialects, accents, and easily bribed native speakers could be very useful. “After that, I asked around – I had the video, and a few photos of Yura, and I stopped in every city that had more than a handful of us until I got to Berlin. Then we ran into each other.”

“You just wandered in and _asked,”_ Mila echoed, disbelief coloring her words. “And they just let you do that? People aren’t exactly thrilled about strangers coming in and asking suspicious questions.”

“I’ve noticed,” he said drily. “I kept coming back until they got tired of throwing me out and told me what they knew so I’d go away.”

That had earned him more than a few fresh scars.

“You really are the same person,” Mila murmured. “Fuck, Otabek.”

* * *

Okay, so Yuri couldn’t be angry at Otabek Fucking Altin for a single second, but he could stay mad at her for three weeks. Mila fumed.

Yuri was staying later and later each day, making slow but visible progress. Some of her worry faded. If Yuri had managed to hold his own in the middle of a growth spurt (for all his self-deprecation, he’d never slipped from the top ten), he was going to blow them all away. Triples were no longer turning into doubles, and his quads were crisp even when he wobbled on the landing, and they were all backed with a new power driven by an adult’s muscle and (very slightly, as Yuri would never be what one could call bulky) widened shoulders.

She cornered him in the men’s locker room.

“Why are you in here?”

“Gender is a lie,” Mila informed him, plopping herself down on a bench, strategically stretching her legs out to block the door. Her knee gave nothing more than a twinge. “Why the hell are you still pissed at me?”

“I’m not,” muttered Yuri, wiping down the blades of his skates one last time before stuffing them into his locker.

“You’ve just been avoiding me for weeks,” she retorted. “Seems like you’re mad.”

“I’m focusing on skating.” He slammed the locker shut. Mila caught his wrist as he tried to slip past her.

“Seriously, what the fuck? I shouldn’t have made you call them, I know you didn’t really want to, but I’m just trying to be your friend. You don’t get to shut me out like this.”

Yuri yanked his hand from her grasp and took a half-step backwards.

“Why do you _want_ to be friends with me?”

She opened her mouth and closed it again, speechless. What kind of question was that, like they hadn’t been almost family for the past seven years, even through Yuri’s nigh-insufferable teen edgelord phase that had consumed him at fourteen.

“That’s what I thought,” he mumbled. “I’m just… I’m trying to do better, okay? I’ll be better.”

“Yura-“

This time, Mila tried to follow him, until he stopped in the middle of the lobby.

“Don’t,” Yuri said over his shoulder. “Give me time. I’m not ready.”

“I only want an apology,” Mila called after him. “You don’t have to make it into a big deal, Yura.”

“I’m sorry, then. I’m fucking sorry. Happy now?”

 _No._ No, she wasn’t happy – Mila wanted him to apologize for calling her a bitch, for yelling at her, for being so rude, but it sounded like Yuri was saying sorry for _being._

She’d give it a few days. Then, if he hadn’t come back to his senses, she’d break into his apartment, pin him to the floor, and sit on him until he remembered that he was Yuri Nikolaevich Plisetsky, brash and arrogant and determined and loud and caring, that he was her little brother and best friend.

It was a good plan. Many people had come to all sorts of realizations with one Mila Babicheva on top of them.

She never got the chance.

* * *

“Yura, he… he didn’t tell me for eight months,” Mila said. She picked at the edge of her brace, worrying at the straps. “He didn’t trust me.”

Otabek watched her carefully. His face was the same stoic mask as before, but the cold, harsh lack of care – that had been all her, desperate to find something she understood, something that would explain _why._

“I blamed you for that,” she admitted. Maybe she still did, because whatever else had happened, Otabek broke Yuri’s heart. “What you did was shit. You should have- you knew Yura better than that, you should have known he wouldn’t cut you off.”

_Not before._

“Yes. I should have.”

Yuri would have been able to read the subtle flick of an eyebrow, the cadence between blinks. They could have held an entire conversation without another word. Mila used to be able to talk to Otabek like that – a glance across the rink, a shared smile as Yuri cursed furniture for daring to get in his way.

That language had rusted with disuse.

“Why the hell did you want to talk to me? And don’t give me that crap about _it was for Yura,_ I know you wanted something else.” `

Silence, except for the cars and buses rushing past in front of them, the gaggles of people babbling in more languages than she could count.

“I thought you might feel the same way,” Otabek said eventually. “That you could have stopped him from falling, if things had been different.”

* * *

Otabek sat, rigid, as Mila fought back tears. He didn’t try to offer comfort; the chasm between them was too wide, so many months of history stretching the handful of centimeters between their shoulders into light years.

“Okay, first of all, fuck you,” she said after a minute, breath hitching. “And yeah, welcome to the club. It includes everyone who ever met him, you’re not special. But yes, however much Yura goes on about _his decisions_ and _his mistakes_ and _personal fucking choices,_ I get it, all right?”

That was another burden he’d tried to carry by himself, unaware that others were crushed under the same weight.

He nodded. She understood. He’d never been alone in this, even when Mila spat poisoned accusations – she’d been throwing them at herself, too, refusing to flinch as her own daggers sank into her chest.

“We’re not friends,” Mila warned. “I’m still- even if you didn’t mean to, you put us through hell. Yura might have forgiven you, but…”

“Yes,” he agreed. The wounds she’d left would take longer to heal, much longer – years that he couldn’t be sure he had. “Maybe sometime.”

“Maybe.” She sighed. “Every time I look at you, I’m going to remember how I fucked up.”

“But you won’t try to chase me out.”

The battle with himself, the clash of _I belong here_ and _I don’t deserve this,_ was more than enough for Otabek to handle already. He would stay, of course, he would _always_ stay, for as long as he could, but it would be nice if he didn’t have to feel the hatred nipping at his heels.

“No, I won’t.” Mila’s mouth twisted into a grimace as if the promise was bitter against her tongue, but she didn’t hesitate. “But if you do it again, if you hurt him like that again, I will fucking destroy you.”

She’d be too late for that.

“You’d have to wait in line.”

“And I guess… if Yura turns into an idiot again, I’ll kick his ass. He should have told us.”

It was the first time Otabek had heard anyone criticize Yuri’s actions, other than Yuri himself. Otabek smiled.

“Truce?”

“Truce,” she agreed.


	36. Chapter 36

Yuuri wasn’t quite sure what to expect as he walked the last few meters to Viktor’s house. Two emergencies had apparently already arisen and been dealt with, and he inferred that one or (more likely) both of them revolved around Yurio. Viktor seemed to deal with his own crises by smiling at them until they slunk away or went nuclear, his well-intentioned meddling doing more to hinder than help the situation, and Otabek, with his quiet, serious demeanor, was too calm and grounded to invite disaster.

(He’d mentioned as much to Phichit while leaving the apartment, and received a dumbstruck stare in return. “What? He can’t be as bad as Viktor and Yurio. Or, I mean, not _bad,_ but, um, exciting?”

“… He has his moments,” Phichit had eventually replied, and Yuuri silently wondered if Otabek was capable of matching the flat-out absurdity of a) assuming a graduate student was a vampire hunter, b) proceeding to date said graduate student, and c) convincing a friend to don fake teeth and play the role of a sympathetic vampire.

Surely not, he decided after a moment.)

Yuuri shifted the bag he was holding to his left hand, ready to knock on the door, but it was pulled open before he could follow through. Viktor lifted a finger to his lips.

“Vitya… why are you touching my lips?”

“Shhh,” clarified Viktor, leaning in for a quick kiss.

With a nod, Yuuri toed off his shoes and dropped his bag of food off in the fridge, stopping to scrawl a quick note that Otabek should help himself. He was turning into his mother, and he was proud of it; Otabek’s face held a gaunt shadow that Yuuri had seen often in dancers who pushed their bodies too far on too little, and his happy (if subdued) acceptance of everything Yuuri had offered did wonders for his self esteem. Phichit, bless his heart, was either too picky or too cautious to eat everything Yuuri cooked.

Yuuri glanced into the living room as he made his way to the stairs. In the dim light that filtered through from the landing upstairs (Viktor had gotten into the habit of switching it on for him when he came over, finally remembering that Yuuri barely had normal vision, much less night vision), he could make out two figures on the couch – Otabek, curled up with his head in Yurio’s lap, both asleep. He turned away quickly, unwilling to intrude, but not before one green eye glinted in the darkness.

 _Fuck off,_ Yurio’s expression said, but without any aggression or bite. He didn’t look like someone who’d had a night bad enough to ruffle Viktor’s feathers; he looked worried, protective. Yuuri nodded in acknowledgement, hoping that Yurio didn’t see his presence as an invasion, before joining Viktor in his room.

When the door clicked shut, Viktor’s mask fell away – he sighed, shoulders slumping, and rubbed at the lines of stress that feathered across his forehead.

“Long day?” Yuuri asked, though he could see the answer in Viktor’s eyes.

“I don’t know how to do this,” admitted Viktor. “When I’m supposed to step in, when I should let them work things out themselves. I’ve never done this before.”

“This?”

Even during their… _argument,_ Yuuri had never seen Viktor so raw and open, so unsure of himself. It should have looked wrong, the uncertainty shrouding his form instead of the usual cloak of cheerful confidence, but maybe this was the only thing that could like behind all the faces Viktor showed to the world.

“Have a- a family. Be responsible,” replied Viktor, sitting on the edge of his bed. “Yuri and I have made it work, most of the time, but Otabek… I’m not sure. I don’t know who he needs me to be.”

Yuuri set his backpack on the floor and sat next to Viktor.

“It looks like you do a great job when you’re just you.”

“Thank you.” Viktor nudged the bag with his toe. “Did you bring work? I can look over the translations.”

“No, I brought, um, pyjamas,” Yuuri stuttered, feeling his face heat up. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but his faded, poodle print pants were more than a stone’s throw from presentable. “I thought I might end up sleeping over, and, I mean, I don’t have to, I just didn’t know how late I’d stay over-“

Viktor was grinning at him, lips curved into a soft heart.

“- and you said you were watching soap operas so I brought my laptop, because I have a bunch of k-dramas downloaded and that’s what I watch when I’m stressed-“

Ten minutes later, Viktor was wearing a striped flannel shirt and had named all the poodles below Yuuri’s left knee.

“This one has to be Druzhok. He looks reliable.” Viktor traced the poodle in question, and Yuuri squirmed, ticklish. “Hey, don’t move, I’ll lose track and miss one.”

“They’re all the same dog, Vitya,” Yuuri protested, trying to keep his leg still.

Viktor pouted.

“Not in _spirit._ They’re all special.”

“Okay.” Yuuri considered his leg. “This one’s Yasuo.”

* * *

When Otabek rose in the late morning to throw himself back into the dragon’s mouth, Yuri watched him go, sent a quick text, and knocked on Viktor’s door.

Viktor answered after a few seconds. It was impossible to tell whether he’d been asleep or not.

“I need a distraction,” Yuri said bluntly. If he spent the entire period thinking about what else Mila might say to Otabek, it would take days to get his anger back under control. He couldn’t let himself get lost in the knowledge that he was trapped inside by the midday sun, that if something went wrong, he could stay put or turn into a pile of ash.

“Of course,” whispered Viktor. “Movie?”

“Whatever.”

The soft, steady rhythm of breathing in the background was interrupted by a yawn. Yuri heard Katsudon mumble something, and wondered if Viktor, too, found some sort of peace in the hypnotic beat of a living heart, a reminder that the world was still turning.

“Everything okay?” Yuuri asked, voice raspy with sleep. Viktor opened his mouth to reply, but Yuri got there first, kicking the door open ( _gently,_ despite Viktor’s sigh of dismay. It didn’t even slam).

“Maybe,” he said, surprising himself. He didn’t _dislike_ the Usurper, even if he was annoying, overly-sincere, and all too encouraging of Viktor’s weirdness. Yuuri was… nice, he supposed. Tolerable. “We’re gonna watch a movie. You could too. I guess.”

“Okay,” agreed Yuuri, sitting up and squinting – his glasses were on the bedside table, and he peered around in confusion before Viktor stepped over and dropped them into his hand. “I have some good movies on my laptop?”

Said laptop was on the table next to where his glasses had rested.

Myshónok was sleeping in a laundry basket. Yuri scooped up the orange cat and marched over to the bed.

“Move over,” he told Yuuri, letting Viktor pull out the spare pillows they kept in the closet for movie days when getting out of bed and going downstairs was more than Yuri could handle. Yuuri, too groggy to argue, shifted over to the side.

There were two options here.

First, Viktor could sit in the middle, getting the covers that were pre-warmed by Yuuri _and_ the prime view of the laptop screen.

Second, Yuri could steal the center before Viktor was done setting up the extra pillows, and get both of those benefits as well as preventing them from kissing too much and ruining the movie. And _maybe_ it wouldn’t be too bad to sit next to Yuuri, who was warm (if not as warm as Otabek) and could provide the extra physical contact that always helped Yuri stay grounded.

He picked his spot.

“Deal with it,” he told Viktor.

* * *

Yuuri woke up around what he assumed, with the windows sealed shut to block all light, was sunset. His phone told him that he didn’t need to meet up with Phichit for their interviews for another three hours.

He’d dozed off during the movie, and Yurio had left at some point. Beside him, Viktor was already awake (or hadn’t bothered to go back to sleep) and buried in a book with the oddly uncoordinated orange cat sprawled across his chest.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Viktor said, noticing Yuuri’s movement.

“Mnngghhh,” replied Yuuri, grabbing for his phone again. It couldn't be morning, he hadn’t slept for almost an entire day, he couldn’t have misread the time. _16:35,_ the clock informed him. “Ugh.”

Viktor chuckled as Yuuri rubbed at his eyes, trying to wipe away the crust of sleep. It would be so easy to roll over and put consciousness off until later, and the bed was so soft…

“Thanks for coming over,” Viktor murmured. “It really helped, having someone here.”

“’Course,” Yuuri mumbled. English was too hard. Just getting his lips to work was a struggle. “Are they, um. Good?”

“Yes,” Viktor told him. “More or less, for now. It went well.”

“Okay. Good. That’s good,” he replied, kicking away the blankets and their lure of sleep. “Nggghhh.”

“Otabek’s making coffee. There’s tea in the kitchen too.”

Consciousness was _almost_ a thing.

“I didn’t expect Otabek to be the one with crises,” Yuuri admitted, trying to smooth down his bedhead. “He seems so… calm.”

But, if Yuuri took away the _signs,_ the nervous babbling and fidgeting, folding in on himself to take up as little space as possible, and focused on the rest of his behavior, it didn’t look so much like confidence anymore.

“He’s had a rough time,” Viktor said softly. “It’s… he’s a good kid.”

“Yeah.” He had to be in his early twenties, Yuuri thought. _A kid._ But now wasn’t the time. “Is there any way I can help?”

“You already do,” replied Viktor, eyebrows arching in surprise.

“I do?”

“You make him feel welcome,” he explained. “You’re… it’s nice being around you, Yuuri. You make people feel like they belong.”

“Oh.” Yuuri thought his brain might have short-circuited, because it was never him that people enjoyed being with. It was always Phichit, ever-social and bubbly, or Mari, with her wry humor and loyalty, or Minako, or Yuuko and Takeshi, not _him_. “Um.”

* * *

“Hey.” Otabek wasn’t surprised when Other-Yuri wandered into the kitchen with sleep-mussed hair and tired eyes. “Would you like some coffee?”

He poured himself a cup, trying to hide the unsteadiness of his hands that threatened to spill milk across the counter. Otabek hadn’t managed to sleep after coming back from the city – his conversation with Mila had taken on a surreal, dreamlike quality. Instead of replacing years of stress and pain, the relief mingled with it, sending jolts down his spine as memories surfaced and replayed.

“Um, no thanks,” replied Yuuri. “I- I try to avoid most caffeine. It makes my… my anxiety worse.”

Other people understood the irrationality of nerves, Otabek knew, but it was always an odd comfort to hear that he wasn’t the only one with a mind insistent on cataloging every possible problem, and then creating some more to fill the gap. He managed to get the milk into his coffee instead of on the floor.

“It helps me,” he said slowly. It was hard not to hide what so many interpreted as weakness, but it was even more difficult to conceal it. “We have a lot of tea in the cabinet beside the fridge.”

“You’re from, um-“

“Kazakhstan,” Otabek supplied. “Almaty.”

“Right. Tea is really popular there, isn’t it?”

“Very,” he agreed. You could drown in tea, if you weren’t careful. When Yuri visited for Aisulu’s wedding, every friend and relative had cornered him for a cup of tea and a chat, and Otabek was fairly certain he’d gotten buzzed enough on the caffeine that he didn’t sleep for most of the week. “It doesn’t taste the same anywhere else, though.”

With a start, Otabek remembered how Zhibek had spent days complaining about the tea in London, and how the British were so convinced that _their_ traditions were perfect in every way – despite the fact, she added, that Kazakhs had been drinking tea for over thirteen centuries, whereas the English had it for a mere three hundred years. That had been two years ago – two years since they’d actually _talked,_ since his little sister had acknowledged she had a brother.

He couldn’t fix it, Otabek reminded himself. He couldn’t put his family through more than he had already. They might not have time to forgive him. If he told them everything, they might not ever want to.

“There’s an Ethiopian restaurant in Prenzlauer Berg that Phichit wants to check out,” Yuuri said absently, digging through the boxes of tea stacked haphazardly on the lowest shelf. “It would be nice if you came along. I know Viktor and Yurio aren’t, um, really into restaurants, obviously.”

“Sure, thanks.” Otabek made a note in his phone – he wasn’t sure if his memory had gotten worse recently, or if it had only become clear once he was no longer by himself, drifting through the days with distraction as a welcome relief.

It was okay, he told himself, he wasn’t forgetting anything important. Only the little things, unimportant items at the grocery store, when he’d last done laundry.

 _How much blue is in Yuri’s eyes,_ his mind whispered. _You forgot that. The date of Aika’s wedding. What else is gone? No wonder they think you don’t care, if you forget them so easily._

Yuuri was looking at him strangely. He must have said something while Otabek was lost in his thoughts.

“Sorry. I missed that.”

“It was nothing,” Yuuri replied. “Just saying thank you for the tea.”

“Of course. Yeah,” he mumbled. “Excuse me, I have to- to go.”

* * *

“Are you sure you don’t want a lift back?”

“It’s fine, don’t worry,” Yuuri said again. “I’ll let you know when I have another free night, and we can do something that’s just us.”

Viktor felt his soul ascend as Yuuri _winked,_ quick and playful.

“You can’t just _do_ that,” he breathed. “I need a warning.”

“Do what?” Yuuri blinked innocently. “What did I do?”

“Your flirty thing, _mоё солнышко._ ”

“I don’t have a flirty thing,” insisted Yuuri, tipping his head. “I’m not… good at that.”

Viktor flashed back to the video Phichit had shown him, the one with Yuuri in nothing more than briefs and a tie, twining himself around a pole. The memory subverted decades of inhuman grace, and Viktor tripped over his own feet.

“You’re doing great, Vitya,” Yuuri murmured. “They don’t need you to be anyone except yourself. No one does.”

As Viktor said goodbye, he wondered what it would have been like to meet Yuuri earlier, when he was still the Vitya who started another life without a word, who skipped his best friend’s wedding and thought himself a hero anyway. That thought carried him back into the library, where Otabek was flipping absentmindedly through a book.

He waited for a moment, until he was sure Otabek was aware of his presence.

“Those aren’t accurate, you know.”

“Hmm?”

“Those books,” he said, gesturing to the volume in Otabek’s hand – one of the first trashy romance novels from Chris, and in Viktor’s opinion, one of the best. “That’s not how vampires… work.”

Otabek stared at the paperback as if suddenly realizing he was holding a large and potentially venomous centipede. He put it down carefully.

“Talking to Mila was very brave,” he added. “No one expects you to feel okay with it right away.”

“I put it off for years,” countered Otabek. “I was selfish. I could have- it could have been better.”

With a height difference of a dozen centimeters, it was difficult not to loom over Otabek. Viktor snagged a chair from the table and sat down.

“Yuri and Mila made mistakes too. Do you think that makes them bad people?”

“Of course not.” Otabek frowned slightly. “I understand why they did what they did. They had reasons.”

“You’re not any different, Otabek.”

He had no illusions that his words were anything new or revelatory, that Yuri and Dr. Schäfer hadn’t told him exactly that a dozen times already, but Viktor hoped that the repetition would make them feel more real.

 _Be yourself,_ Yuuri said, but there were so many versions of Viktor that he didn’t know which one was him. Maybe all of them; maybe none.

“You said you found out what it was,” Otabek said suddenly. “I- I want to know now.”

“Are you sure?” Something in that encounter had pushed him out of his home and away from his family, had halted and undone every bit of healing. Otabek might have survived, but the last bit of his hope had been left to die on the cold, rocky beach. “You don’t have to.”

It must have been right after returning that Otabek came to the conclusion that he was living on borrowed time.

“Yes.”

Viktor took out his phone and opened the portion of the email he’d copied, handing it over without a word.

* * *

A patch of saltwater, but its essence is something more. Without thought, without feeling, tendrils of want slither out, reaching, _grasping_ for an open mind. It’s an invitation. A siren call.

The hook sinks in.

An accident, a fall, a slip over the edge of the ship into icy water below.

They try to save the victim. That’s human nature, after all. Maybe it’s what it means to be human.

It’s too late. It’s always too late. Something else is there now.

But still: hope.

They crowd around, trying to force out water, to coax another breath of air, another heartbeat. They pray. They say goodbye.

The ship has not stopped sailing. It continues on, rushing towards the infinite horizon.

With bowed heads and tear-blurred vision, they don't all notice when eyes open to reveal ragged edges of black and icy, empty gray.

Those that do see think of miracles and second chances.

They don’t notice fingertips that have melted into claws, shaped from inside by saltwater veins, or the broken, jagged teeth.

Then, they do.

Then, it’s too late.

It was too late before. Where would they go, surrounded by miles of open ocean?

The ship is still sailing when it begins to spread.

It creeps into their bodies, a poison, a virus, into now-hot blood.

A frozen heart can’t beat, so it doesn’t.

It grows into the new emptiness and begins the cycle anew.

Eventually, the hosts begin to fail, but their purpose is fulfilled – they fall back into the water, one by one, knot by knot, letting their essence escape into the ocean and wait.

There is no one left to sail, but the wind pushes it onwards, empty. The ship was nothing more than a host for its crew and now it, too, has been used up.

A ghost ship.

All boats will either sink or come to shore, with no hand to guide them, leaving the last of its cargo trapped in a shallow harbor.

It waits, it reaches, and finally, the bait is taken – but _this_ isn’t right, is almost human but not quite, and it doesn’t fit. The body itself, absent of its true inhabitant, is fighting the invader, tearing itself apart. It will die here, on dry land, mere meters from the water.

Still, it tries. There is no thought, no decision, only instinct that runs deeper than its own survival. But the next isn’t human at all, even while bearing the nature of humanity, and no hold can be found.

It fails.

There is no one else. It forces itself towards the water, to wait again.

Maybe it succeeds.

Maybe it doesn’t.

But then, this is all a guess.

The celeste do not leave many survivors to tell their stories.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this has been an amazing experience, but I'd like to ask you all for a favor. It's really easy to doubt myself and my writing, and even with the amazing support I've gotten, I end up convincing myself that there's basically no one reading this and I'm just throwing new chapters into the internet void. This week has been particularly tough because my life has been a bit of a mess, and I would appreciate it so much if you could drop in and say hi in the comments, just so I can punch my nerves in the face and remind myself that we're all along for the ride.

“Hey, Beka. Earth to Beka.”

Yuri couldn’t help but smile as Otabek blinked at him sleepily from the sofa, looking dazed and thoughtful instead of troubled.

“Sorry. Hi.”

Only a _little_ troubled, Yuri amended. They would both be on edge for the next few days, unsteady and raw. He’d have to be careful – Yuri could feel the turmoil in the back of his mind, fireworks of anger and relief, euphoria and guilt.

“I just didn’t want you to pass out in your coffee,” he said softly, letting his fingers trail across Otabek’s back and rest on the nape of his neck. Yuri was tempted to lean in for a kiss, but the sweet-iron taste of blood lingered on his tongue from breakfast. “You didn’t sleep.”

“I-“

“I’m not letting you apologize for that, dork,” interrupted Yuri, flopping across the couch and sticking his foot in Otabek’s face to cut him off. “I wanted to know how you’re feeling.”

The only answer he got was a distracted half-smile.

“Did something else happen?” He’d gotten a brief overview of how it went, and maybe everything was catching up to him again, but his Beka Senses were tingling.

“Kind of.”

In a massive display of self-restraint, Yuri refrained from rolling his eyes, because that was all he was going to get out of Otabek until his thoughts had caught up with whatever else was going on.

“Let’s go do something,” Yuri said, poking Otabek’s cheek with his toe. He felt ready to explode, full of nervous energy that had to get out before it cracked, whip-like, against the first available target. Which would be Otabek. Which _definitely_ wasn’t allowed to happen. “Skating?”

A shadow passed through Otabek’s eyes, reflecting a hint of the same blankness from last night. They’d talked about him, Yuri realized, talked about his stupid fall and the holes he tore in their lives. Most nights, when Yuri and Viktor went to the rink, Otabek joined them later, after Yuri had thrown himself into jumps and crashed against the ice to his satisfaction. Practice was easier when he didn’t have to worry about injuries, but they’d agreed that it was better if Otabek didn’t try to watch him fall.

Otabek, however, would never ask Yuri not to skate, any more than Yuri would demand that Otabek cut out his own heart.

Part of him wondered if Otabek had forgiven him for taking their true home with him when he died, for staining every patch of ice with the memory of blood and loss.

“Something else, then,” Yuri continued, biting back a rush of guilt-laden irritation that Otabek wouldn’t (or couldn’t) just _say_ what he needed, leaving Yuri to tiptoe through a minefield of guesswork – but that wasn’t fair, he reminded himself, especially not when it was _him_ saying that. “A run. Go out far enough from the city that we can go as fast as we want.”

“Sure.”

“You don’t have to, you can stay home and nap or whatever. I just… I have to get out before I get grumpy. Grumpier. And Viktor wants me to talk to Mila before she flies out in the morning and- _ugh,_ ” he summarized, staring up at the ceiling. It was going to be another long night. The full moon was the following day, too, and no matter what Otabek said, Yuri didn’t want him trying to do that with no sleep and running himself into further exhaustion. “So yeah.”

“No, a run sounds good,” replied Otabek. A flicker of amusement broke through the fog of distraction. “Think you can keep up?”

“I can leave you in the fucking dust, Altin.”

* * *

Yuri could not, in fact, leave Otabek in the dust.

“What the _hell,_ that’s not fair,” he grumbled from his spot on the frozen ground. “I’m faster than you.”

He _was_ faster – Otabek’s jaw would have dropped when Yuri burst into a sprint, had he not been so focused on catching up – but vampires were built for a quick, decisive hunt instead of endurance. After several kilometers, his movements had become heavy and lethargic, and by the end he’d stumbled to a halt, shot a glare at Otabek, and sat down on the ground.

“The dust, huh?” Otabek lifted an eyebrow and kicked at the edge of the deer trail they’d been following. It was too cold and damp for dust, but a few crumbs of dirt were enough to illustrate. Yuri cursed.

Moving had helped. To some degree, it always did, softening the thoughts swirling through his mind enough that he could begin to untangle them.

“You fucker,” Yuri grumbled, “you’re barely out of breath. You’re carrying me back to the bike.”

“I’m sweaty, do you mind?”

“Do I look like I care? Besides, I’m freezing.”

A trickle of unease crept down his back, distant as a dream. Yuri was Yuri, body heat or no, even if getting used to that had taken more than a bit of adjustment, but the memory of the _thing –_ the celeste, he reminded himself, it wasn’t a mystery anymore – was closer than it had been since he’d first seen Yuri running through the streets of Berlin.

However, Yuri was looking at him with green eyes, not slush-grey, and the tips of his pointed canines were made for piercing instead of tearing. It was impossible to forget that Yuri could be dangerous, could be deadly, but to Otabek, he was the safest person in the world.

(Yuri and Viktor had, in all likelihood, saved his life – Otabek held no illusions about how much longer he could have managed on his own – but more than that, they made him _care_ that it had been saved. He’d been afraid of Yuri for several heart-shattering months, and he never would be again.)

Otabek pulled Yuri to his feet, not bothering to stifle his groan when Yuri hopped on his back and stuck icy hands under Otabek’s light jacket.

“Yura,” he whined, though the patches of cold on his chest were already lukewarm, “was that really necessary?”

“Yep.” Yuri's laughter was a breath of cool air against his ear. “Body heat communism, Beka.”

“Thievery, more like. Will you be okay on the bike?” No matter what Yuri said about vampiric durability, Otabek wasn’t going to risk him falling asleep on the road.

“I’m not that tired.”

“Then why am I carrying you?”

“Because.”

“Well, Yura-“ Otabek definitely did not yelp, even a little, when Yuri snickered and licked his neck. And, if he had, it would have been totally justified because Yuri’s tongue was just as cold as the rest of him. “ _Why._ ”

Yuri replied by kissing Otabek just under his ear.

“Neither of those on the bike,” he said with a smile. Yuri was trying to distract him, and even if it wasn’t altogether effective, Otabek appreciated the effort. “I’d drive into a tree.”

They managed to avoid incidents on the ride home, and Otabek thought about the motorcycle beneath them with a tinge of sadness. It was a good bike, but it wasn’t _his_ , the one he’d given to his sister in the beginning of the _after_ – it was only a tool leased to help him find Yuri. He’d hung onto it, rationalizing that it was money he expected to spend on lodging, and Viktor wouldn’t take a euro of rent. If Otabek was being honest with himself, it was a fallback for when things inevitably fell apart, when Yuri decided that he wasn’t worth the pain, stress, and effort.

Trust was hard to relearn, a melody he’d been taught in childhood and forgotten along the way, one he was now struggling to pick out with fumbling fingers. It was easy to have faith in Yuri, but believing in himself was infinitely more difficult.

Otabek didn’t need an escape anymore, and he didn’t need the drain on what was left of his savings.

If he could pick up more German and shake the constant, nagging sensation that he was wasting time – or if he knew there was no point in saving money – he might be able to get something more permanent.

* * *

Yuri dropped his motorcycle helmet onto the kitchen table (Viktor and Otabek both continued to insist that he wear one) and raked his fingers through the blond nest of his hair. It was, on the whole, a bit of a miracle that whatever magic kept vampires going also stopped them from freezing solid. The fatigue from their run wouldn’t begin to fade until he’d eaten and rested for a while, but it could wait.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” he told Otabek. “A long one.”

“Warming up?”

“Before I start to sweat,” Yuri muttered darkly. The cold was an issue, but imagined memories of ice and darkness had begun to bother him less. Thermodynamics, however, hadn’t gotten the message. Otabek tipped his head, a gesture that echoed his wolf form enough that Yuri had to blink once or twice. “Okay, look.”

He yanked a glass from the cabinet, filled it with ice water, and plopped it onto the table.

“Don't drink it. Just watch.”

As he stepped under the hot water, Yuri wondered whether Viktor would actually drag him out of the bathroom and make him go talk to Mila, or if he was exempt for as long as he refused to put on clothes.

No, Viktor would simply nod and ask Mila to come around to the house, knowing that Yuri would rush out to meet her to avoid giving Otabek even more to worry about – however well their last meeting had gone, no part of the past couple of days had been easy. And, if she did come over, Mila would have no compunctions about following him into the bathroom, nudity or no.

Better to grit his teeth, deal with whatever conversation Viktor had arranged behind the scenes, and get it over with on his terms.

Otabek was gazing at the glass of ice water when Yuri made his way back down to the kitchen. He ran a finger through the beads of condensation that had formed on the outside.

“Sweat,” he murmured. “This didn’t happen before.”

“It’s colder, I was out for longer, and you weren’t close enough to keep me warm,” explained Yuri, opening the fridge. “So yeah, sweating.”

His period of defrosting had been long enough to give Otabek time to eat and take his own shower; dishes dripped in the drying rack beside the sink, and he’d changed into a faded green t-shirt and pyjama pants.

“That’s my shirt,” Yuri informed him.

“Those are my pants.”

They were, in fact, Otabek’s pants.

“No, they’re not,” said Yuri, sticking out his tongue. “Are you gonna sleep?”

Otabek shrugged. “I’ll try.”

Yuri opened his mouth to make a joke about knocking him out so he’d get a few hours of sleep, something they used to tease each other about during the jetlagged days before and after competitions, but it wasn’t funny anymore. Someone – many someones – had hit Otabek, as evidenced by the now-familiar roadmap of scars. Yuri would like to hunt every single one of them down and make them regret it, but in the meantime, he’d refrain from joking about adding another one.

“If I get too pissed off talking to Mila, I’m probably going to avoid you until I calm down,” he said instead. “I don’t want to yell at you for something that’s not your fault just because I’m in a bad mood.”

Otabek nodded, then yawned.

“When is moonrise this time?”

“About three in the afternoon,” replied Otabek. “I’m going to try to be out there by noon. It’ll set just after seven in the morning, so I should be back by noon.”

Yuri could order food and have it waiting for Otabek when he came back, but he wouldn’t be able to answer the door because _fucking_ sunlight. He could ask Katsudon to bring something over, so Otabek wouldn’t have to cook. Or… Yuri could cook. It wasn’t something he’d done for years, as there was no one to eat it and the idea taunted him with loss, but he used to enjoy it.

He made a mental note to pick up a frozen pizza at the supermarket, just in case.

Otabek drank the water that was still sitting on the table.

“That was my metaphor, Beka, you can’t _drink_ my _metaphor_.”

* * *

          Yurio didn’t say hi as he unfolded himself and climbed out of the car, but Yuuri decided that his half-hearted sneer counted as a warm Plisetsky greeting.

            Viktor’s eyes lit up when he caught sight of Yuuri standing outside the apartment complex, arms wrapped around himself as he tried not to shiver in his light jumper. The sparkle in his blue eyes brought an ember of warmth to Yuuri’s cheeks, and an ache of doubt to his chest.

            This wasn’t just fun anymore, a relationship that could be enjoyed and left behind. Maybe it never had been – but before Yuuri would let himself put words to it, he had to decide how much of his heart he was willing to lay on the line. After all, they would never be able to grow old together.

            “Backpack, _котёнок,_ ” Viktor reminded Yurio, who slung the bag over his shoulder without protest. “Say hi to Ulrike for me.”

            There was no sign of Otabek. The moon must be full behind the pearly grey clouds that coated the sky.

            Viktor wasn’t bored yet, and Yuuri wasn’t old yet. There were translations to look over, kisses to steal when Phichit glanced away.

* * *

 

For Otabek, the next week passed in a blur. Everything felt off-balance, as if the world had taken a step to one side without him noticing. Yuri was quiet. His thoughts were loud. Dr. Schäfer spent an hour asking him _what if, what if, what if,_ and for the first time, Otabek thought he might be able to answer her – not yet, he wasn’t there yet, but sometime.

He wrote letters, what felt like dozens of pages, and sent a couple. Aisulu’s twins turned two years old. Otabek picked up his phone, put it down again. He borrowed Yuri’s laptop to look up German classes, and ended up browsing through music courses offered by local universities before pushing the computer away with his rising panic.

There was a family meeting.

“It’s okay, I’ll just wait,” Otabek said, when Yuri reminded him.

Yuri rolled his eyes, softening the gesture with a smile.

“No, moron, you’re supposed to come too.”

“Oh,” replied Otabek.

“I know, it’s stupid.”

“I don’t think it is,” said Otabek thoughtfully. _Communicate._ “Viktor’s idea?”

“No.”

 

They sat around the coffee table in the living room. In a fit of pique, Yuri insisted on rounding up all five cats – he was obviously stalling, but neither Viktor nor Otabek did more than chuckle as Yuri did his best to line them up on the sofa.

“I called Grandpa,” Yuri said finally, hugging Zoyenka to his chest. “I told him… I told him I thought it was better if we didn’t visit Moscow this month. That I’m too distracted right now.”

Otabek remembered what Yuri had explained before, about how traveling meant days in a modified tractor trailer, constantly on alert in case something went wrong. An accident on the highway, in broad daylight, would be a disaster. The truck might be stopped at the border and searched. When they reached their destination, nothing could be left to chance: every window of Nikolai’s house had to be checked and secured, and Yuri could not let himself be seen – his face was still familiar in Russia, especially on the Moscow streets where he’d grown up. There wasn’t time to be lost in thought.

Distracted meant careless. Careless meant stupid. Stupid meant dead.

Yuri’s hands were balled into fists, and Otabek’s heart ached for him. He knew what it felt like to miss family, and Yuri ached for his grandfather. They spoke on the phone several nights a week, but it wasn’t the same.

“I think that’s a very wise decision,” Viktor said gently. “I’m proud of you.”

“Whatever,” snapped Yuri, then softened. “He said… his back’s been better, after the surgery. He thinks he could come here. Maybe. He’s going to talk to his doctor.”

They discussed logistics for a few minutes before turning to Otabek.

“I-“ He stopped, fumbling for the words that had been ricocheting around his mind, taunting and teasing. “I think I want to talk to my family.”


	38. Chapter 38

Viktor’s eyebrows shot up at Otabek’s announcement, and a heavy mixture of joy, shock, and cold dread welled up in Yuri’s chest. Only a few weeks ago, he’d been ready to dial the phone himself, but now he forced a reassuring smile.

Otabek sat with his hands folded in his lap, staring down at the carpet, and Yuri realized with a jolt that the cloak of determination that he used to wear like a second skin was back. It had been ragged, shredded by fear and uncertainty, worn with shame instead of pride – but it was more than that, had always been Otabek’s soul bared to the world.

It, too, was scarred but healing.

He was _healing._

That particular realization hit Yuri like a lightning bolt, hard and sudden and _obvious –_ but somehow he’d missed it, that Otabek was slowly picking up the pieces of himself. That he’d be okay.

“Let us know what we can do to help,” said Viktor, flashing a soft smile. “Whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” replied Otabek. He lifted his eyes for a moment before dropping his gaze again and pulling the nearest cat into his lap.

That was pretty much the end of their first ‘family meeting;’ Viktor babbled for a couple of minutes about _having people over_ and something to do with chores, but Otabek seemed too shocked by what he’d said to listen, and even if Yuri hadn’t been equally distracted, his selective hearing was finely tuned to drown out parties and housework.

Viktor picked up Myshónok and went upstairs, ostensibly to call Katsudon, but obviously with the intention of giving Yuri and Otabek some privacy.

“You really want to do this?” If Yuri had pushed Otabek into this before he was ready, he had to take care of this _now._

“Yeah,” sighed Otabek. “I think so.”

If Otabek thought so, he meant it – it took a lot for him to change his mind. It wasn’t the action he was unsure of, but its meaning, and how to go about it.

“Beka… what changed?” Yuri shifted a couple of cats so he could sit closer to Otabek. “Was it talking to Mila?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Probably. And I- I asked Viktor to talk to people, to find out what the thing was. In Sweden. What happened.”

“He found out,” Yuri breathed, forcing himself not to move. He wanted to wrap himself around Otabek, hold him tight, but memories of cold skin and hungry, grasping hands might be too close to the surface. “Are you okay?”

“More than I was.” Otabek paused again, like his words were nearly past his lips when they decided, of their own volition, not to be spoken. “I- sorry. I should have-“

“You don’t have to tell me everything, Beka,” replied Yuri. “Just… what you want. I trust you.”

Otabek leaned into Yuri, letting Mitya meow his protests at the movement and hop down from his lap. They fit together so well, Yuri thought, as the warm touch of Otabek’s breath touched his collarbone.

“I always thought I should have been able to do more,” he murmured. “If I changed back faster, got her out of the water. Figured out something was wrong earlier, told her to stay away from the ocean. And then… I passed out, I didn’t know what happened, if I’d let it keep attacking people. Or if she was still there somehow, it wasn’t too late for her, and I killed her-“

“ _Beka,_ ” whispered Yuri, horrified. It shouldn’t have been surprising that Otabek would blame himself for trying to survive (and barely managing – he tried to shut out the image of Otabek, unconscious and vulnerable, of how bad a wound would have to be to leave the sort of scar that twisted across his chest), but whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t this. Everything he’d said to Otabek during the terrible first week pushed itself to the forefront of his mind. “Beka, I’m so sorry.”

“Nothing I did would have made any difference,” said Otabek, looking up at Yuri. His eyes were dark with the past, but a flicker of light insisted that the story wasn’t over yet. “What Viktor found… It didn’t matter that I was there. I wasn’t important. I couldn’t have helped.” He took a deep breath. “It wasn’t my fault.”

It all came back to choices. _I’m not a good choice,_ Otabek had said, but Yuri was slowly realizing that what he meant was _I can’t make the right choice._ Except, sometimes, there wasn’t one – and anyway, if everyone was measured by their mistakes, there wouldn’t be a person on Earth left to judge the rest.

“No, it fucking wasn’t,” agreed Yuri, in lieu of actually fighting the abstract concept of misplaced guilt. He opened his mouth again, then blinked slowly. “Um. I don’t get how this connects.”

“People around me kept getting hurt. Her. My family. You,” he said softly. “I wasn’t thinking clearly, I know that, but it felt like… if I got far enough away, they could go on with their lives without me, they’d be safe. It wouldn’t be so bad when I disappeared again, and I wouldn’t be- I wouldn’t be bad luck.” He sighed once more. “And they wouldn’t find out what I am. I wouldn’t lose them completely.”

“We’d never let you disappear.” Somehow, the words didn’t come out coated in blood, for all they’d torn at Yuri’s mouth on their way. Whatever happened, Otabek wasn’t allowed to slip away and be quietly forgotten. “Never.”

“I know. I… I talked to Viktor a few weeks ago.” Otabek ran his fingers through Yuri’s hair and leaned back. Yuri felt like he was being memorized, studied, but without any trace of fear that the searching eyes would find him wanting. It was, in that instant, fine to just be _him._ It always had been, with Otabek. “You’re here, sometimes I still can’t believe it, that you’re actually here. Yura, I would have done anything if it meant you would be okay, and you are.”

And _fuck,_ what was Yuri supposed to say to that, except that he, too, was sometimes struck by the same shockwave. Though, to be fair, he’d only been convinced that Otabek hated him for an unknown reason.

“We’re both here,” he said eventually. Then, because his mouth was a fucking idiot, Yuri heard himself keep talking. “If everything goes well, are you… are you going to go back to Almaty?”

“I hope-“ Otabek stopped, frowned. “Yura, _no,_ to visit, but not- I’m staying here. I promised, I’m not going to leave, not if you don’t want me to.”

“I want you to do what makes you happy,” snapped Yuri. It was easier to be angry, to be annoyed. It was safer, and _hot,_ almost so that he could pretend it was melting away the ice frosting the inside of his skin. “If that means being with your family, then yeah, I do fucking want you to leave, but I want to know.”

“Yura, being _here_ makes me happy.” There was a rasp to Otabek’s voice, and Yuri weathered the wave of regret. “You, and Viktor, going to therapy. I’m less of a mess now, and I didn’t think that would ever happen. This is home. _You’ve_ always felt like home.”

“I- you- _you_.” Yuri sputtered and wiped at his eyes. “I’m not crying, you’re a fucking sap and I really love you and _fuck,_ Beka.”

Otabek looked slightly worried, like he thought he’d said the wrong thing. Yuri leaned over and kissed him.

“You’ve talked to Dr. Schäfer about it?” Yuri asked a minute later, and Otabek nodded, slightly dazed. Sometimes they both forgot that Otabek needed to breathe, which was not a kissing problem he’d predicted. “So… when?”

“Not for a while,” replied Otabek. “I tried to do too much, with Mila and Viktor’s information, and I’m a little…”

“Out of it?” Yuri suggested. “Comatose? Rattled? Lost in space?”

Otabek chuckled. “That bad?”

“Yesterday, you talked to me for an hour,” he explained. Otabek looked nonplussed. “In Shala Kazakh.”

“… Oh.”

“The day before, you made four cups of coffee in a row and forgot about _all_ of them,” Yuri continued. “You put one in the fucking freezer. The fifth time, you didn’t even put coffee grounds in, it was just water. I got that spit-take on video.”

“ _Yura,_ ” whined Otabek. The tips of his ears were flushing from pink to red, but Yuri could tell he was hiding a grin. “I’m not good at things.”

“And _then_ you blamed Zoyenka for distracting you.” The memory of Otabek holding the cat like a baby while explaining that she _‘had to take responsibility,’_ and _‘yes, I know it’s not your fault that you’re cute, but that’s no excuse’_ was something Yuri had immediately filed away in the mental category labeled ‘Never, Ever Forget.’ “Maybe you should have been an astronaut, because you’re already a damn space cadet.”

“The first werewolf on the moon?”

“Yep. Wait, how would that work, would it just be like a continuous full moon or what?”

* * *

“This part of the city reminds me of Russia,” Viktor told Yuuri, surveying the plattenbauen lining the streets of Friedrichshain like concrete dominos. “I lived with my parents in an apartment like that in Yekaterinburg – Sverdlovsk, then – before moving to Moscow, and then another in St. Petersburg.”

“Did you come to Berlin before the wall fell?”

“No, just after,” said Viktor. “A lot of us did. Everything so was chaotic, no one noticed a few more oddballs around. Many people used the opportunity to get into official positions, which is why Berlin is so… different, from other places.” Those few years after settling in Germany had been exhilarating, as he watched the city’s border melt into a concrete scar, with fresh ground for new roots as history twisted once again. “Ulrike was in West Berlin before – human, then, of course. She told me that when it was open the first time, she looked in, and it was like looking into a city of darkness.”

“Wow,” murmured Yuuri. The glow of a streetlamp glinted off his glasses and cast the soft curve of his cheek into sharp relief.

“Yes,” Viktor agreed, admiring the graceful line of Yuuri’s lips. “Wow.”

“Is it- never mind.” Yuuri shook his head as if trying to rid himself of a thought that buzzed around his face like a persistent mosquito. “The Olympics start next week, right?”

“Friday.” He sighed. “I’m worried about how Yurio’s going to handle it. He’s… It’s the first since he was turned, it’s going to be hard for him. Otabek too.”

“Oh. Yeah,” Yuuri said, looking down at the sidewalk. “Did he skate in the last one? Was he old enough?”

“He won,” Viktor replied quietly. “A gold medal at sixteen, and a world record. The other competitions are a bit difficult too, but the Olympics… they’re special. Everything else blends together after a few years, but not that.”

“Vitya.”

“Yes?”

“You’re an Olympic athlete.”

“Um, yes?” Viktor smiled, desperately trying to figure out the expression on Yuuri’s face. “Three times.”

“And you never mentioned it.”

“It didn’t come up,” he said, holding the grin to his face like the mask it was. Yuuri was… angry? Annoyed? “It didn’t seem relevant, it was a long time ago. I don’t think about it much.”

Yuuri didn't reply.

“I’m sorry,” pleaded Viktor. “If I’d known it would upset you-“

He never would have mentioned it at all.

_Who do you want me to be?_

“I’m not upset,” Yuuri insisted, sounding very upset. “I’m just surprised.”

“I don’t understand.” Viktor winced internally; Yuuri had told him to be himself, but of course he hadn’t meant it, not really. Everyone was looking for the right mask. “Yuuri, please tell me what I did wrong.”

“Nothing!” Yuuri half-shouted, turning away. “You’re _you,_ and I’m… me. I was a mediocre dancer and now I’m an unqualified researcher pretending I know what I’m doing, and I keep waiting for you to realize that.”

Viktor gaped at him, lost for words.

“I wanted to pretend I had a chance,” Yuuri continued bitterly. “At least until I started to look old. But the only way- even if you wanted that, I don’t know if _I_ do.”

“Yuuri, I’m not- I wasn’t-“ stuttered Viktor. He had the sudden urge to call Otabek, to ask him to explain what Yuuri was feeling, to tell him what to say to fix it. “We don’t have a time limit.”

He knew it was a lie as he said it, and Yuuri did too.

“Don’t we?” Yuuri ran his fingers through his hair, which was already slicked into smooth spikes by his agitation. “You’re going to look twenty-seven forever, and I’m almost thirty already.”

“But I’m _not_ twenty-seven,” Viktor protested. “And not changing… people want to grow old together, to _grow_ together. I can’t. Do you think I haven’t seen that before, someone I care about getting older, going from looking up to me to treating me like a child, because I’ll never catch up?”  

A pause.

“You thought _I’d_ get tired of _you_?” Yuuri breathed. “Vitya, I don’t think anyone could ever get tired of you.”

They could, though. They had. They did, once they realized that there was nothing behind the façade, the empty surprises, the false smiles. Or… there hadn’t been, before. He had been dreams and ambitions draped over a self-centered wire frame, but – Viktor prodded at _himself,_ at the idea of who he was, and found substance. When had that changed?

When he’d stopped shielding his heart, let it out of its box and bared it, naked and vulnerable, to the world, and found a family.

“You were going to ask me to turn you,” Viktor said, hating the words.

“No. Maybe,” Yuuri replied. He adjusted his glasses, took them off, cleaned them on his shirt, put them on again. “I thought about it. I know it’s only been a few months, but I wanted… I wanted to think about if we had a future, if we could work, because if we keep going I don’t know if I’ll be able to give you up. But.”

“But?” Viktor wasn’t sure he wanted to hear an answer, _any_ answer.

“I don’t know what it’s like to be a vampire,” Yuuri told him. “But right now, I probably know more than anyone on Earth who isn’t one. I know the odds, I know what I’d be giving up, and I don’t… I don’t think I could do that either, even if I had years to decide. Decades.”

“I wouldn’t do it,” Viktor said, steeling himself. The admission hurt like razor wire twining through his veins. “Yuuri, I… did you think about what it would mean? To me?”

“Being stuck with me forever,” said Yuuri, sighing. “You couldn’t just change your mind.”

Viktor sat down on a nearby bench, unable to trust his legs to keep moving him forward, and closed his eyes as Yuuri joined him.

“You wouldn’t have heard about it,” he murmured. “It’s not something we talk about.”

“Only once,” admitted Yuuri. “From one of our volunteers, I think he’s really old, but… privacy. He said- he said you try not to get attached. I asked what he meant, but he wouldn’t tell me.”

“We can try all we like,” Viktor said quietly. “It won’t make a difference. Turning someone… it’s not something you do on a whim.” It had been for him, but it hadn’t remained that way for long. “Even if it’s- if it’s natural, it means staying with them so they don’t have to die alone. It means sitting by a grave night after night, hoping they come back, counting every second in your head and wondering how long you’ll wait – two days, a week, a month – before you give up, because you can’t ever be sure that they _will._ It means doing everything you can to keep them safe, when the world is full of dangers you’ve never even considered, and you don’t always know what to protect them from. You don’t get to choose not to get attached, but you still know you’re probably going to fail, that you’re going to watch them die again, or worse, you can’t even be there for them. It destroys people, to lose someone like that. That’s why we don’t talk about it. It hurts too much.”

Yuuri’s face was stricken and twisted with jagged empathy.

“Now imagine going through that with someone you loved before,” whispered Viktor, trying not to let him think about just that. “It’s not something we do unless there’s no other options left. Now… you’re young, you’re healthy, you’re _living_. And even so, I have to focus on Yura. When I turned him, it was a promise that I would do everything to keep him safe, and I can’t get distracted. He needs me. You don’t.”

“I’m sorry.” Yuuri touched Viktor’s shoulder gently, and Viktor hid his face in his hands. Maybe it would be easier if they did talk about it, about the fear and responsibility that weighed on each of them. “Vitya, are you okay?”

Viktor nodded. His head felt heavier than it should, unsteady on his neck.

“Just take a minute,” came Yuuri’s voice, in his ear but far away. “I won’t bring it up again. Breathe, slowly.”

“I don’t need to breathe,” choked out Viktor, trying to smile.

“Do it anyway,” Yuuri said sternly.

Viktor breathed.

“I’m fine,” he said finally. “ _We’re_ fine, Yuuri. I want to try, like we’re normal. I’m not going to get bored or ever think you’re any less gorgeous. The rest… we can think about it later. Right now, I wouldn’t, I couldn’t, but eventually- you might not even want it. Most people wouldn’t. If you want decades to decide, I’ll give you decades, I’ll give you forever if we make _this_ work first.”

“I’ll gain more weight,” Yuuri muttered, smoothing his shirt self-consciously over the delicate curve of his waist. “My family always does.”

“And it’ll look beautiful on you,” Viktor told him, thinking about Yuuri with softened cheeks and laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. “Everything does.”

“I’ll get wrinkly and my hair will go grey,” he continued peevishly, blushing.

“Hey.” Viktor pouted, touching his own hair. “Do you think I can’t handle Silver Fox Yuuri?”

“I’m going to look just like my dad,” Yuuri insisted, but now he was holding back a giggle. “I might start wearing sweater vests.”

“Well, your mom still thinks your dad is hot,” Viktor replied teasingly, and Yuuri blanched.

“I didn’t want to think about that, Vitya.” His smile was shaky but present. “So we have a chance?”

“More than a chance,” Viktor agreed. “Let’s find a park and make out like teenagers behind some bushes. Silver Fox Yuuri has me all hot and bothered.”

“Uh, maybe my apartment instead? No offense, Vitya, but your body temperature is about two degrees right now and frostbite doesn’t turn me on.”

* * *

Otabek watched as Yuri dealt with the Olympics in a quieter manner than he would have expected before they’d come to know each other again: Yuri simply acted as if they didn’t exist. For the most part, Otabek did the same, avoiding the topic as best he could and trying to forget his own Pyeongchang bronze medal that presumably was still on display in Almaty.

Yuri made an exception to watch Mila skate. Otabek went for a run and texted her a brief, tentative note of congratulations.

“She had a quad toe in her free skate,” said Yuri later, while folding laundry. “She made history.”

They paired socks silently for several minutes.  
            “There was an interview during a break,” he continued finally. “A kid from Japan. He broke the world record. With his short program.”

The world record. Otabek glanced over at Yuri, who was staring resolutely down at the pile of fabric, uncharacteristically expressionless.

That had been Yuri’s record, untouched for years.

“He must have skated very well,” Otabek replied carefully. Did Yuri feel like he was being erased, pushed further into the dusty archives of the past? The last time Otabek was in Almaty, no one had recognized him. It had been a bittersweet relief.

“He damn well better have,” Yuri spat, but it lacked his usual venom. “I don’t know. I don’t care. I’m supposed to be upset, but I’m- I don’t know. I’d never heard of him, he must have still been in juniors when- yeah.”

Sometimes, Otabek decided, it was harder to wait for something to happen than to deal with it when it did. He continued to help with the laundry (mostly by removing various cats and curtailing their path of destruction), and told himself that it was time.

* * *

**OA:** Hi. Can I call you?

 **OA:** Nothing is wrong. It’s okay if you don’t want to.

 **ZA:** sry, who is this? i don’t have yr #

 **OA:** I’m sorry. It’s Beka.


	39. Chapter 39

The seconds of silence stretched into an eternity as Otabek stared down at the phone clasped loosely in his hand. The screen flickered into blank darkness.

            “Beshka?” Yuri was curled into a bundle of knees and elbows at the other end of the bed, and he stretched out a leg to put himself within touching distance. While Otabek wanted nothing more than to wrap himself around Yuri and forget the last five minutes, the thought of physical contact was a smothering, pressing weight. “Are you-“

            “Zhibek doesn’t have my phone number.” His own voice sounded hoarse and distant; it was so tempting to slip into the dreamlike fog, but Otabek refused to run away again. “She- I don’t-“

            She’d called him before, after he left, and every time he’d held the phone in trembling fingers until it went to voicemail. It was already too hard to stay away.

            Eventually, she stopped. Otabek told himself that she must have realized how much easier her life was without her crumpled shell of a brother, that whoever – or whatever – had come back from Sweden wasn’t the same person, was in fact only a shoddy, cracked facsimile of a person-

            “ _Beka,_ ” said Yuri, who was suddenly a lot closer. “Get the fuck out of your head, you’re doing the thing again.”

            Yuri’s eyes should be brimming with judgment, seeing firsthand how Otabek had destroyed everything he touched, everything he loved – after all, he’d called too, had given up on Otabek, of course Zhibek would do the same. They had to protect themselves from his shrapnel.

            “- like this.” The thread of Yuri’s words found him again, leading Otabek out of the twisting cave of his thoughts. “Beka, breathing. Breathing is good for you, do it. More slowly than that.”

            “I-“ He opened his mouth to apologize, but something in Yuri’s face stopped him. “How long?”

            “Only a few seconds,” Yuri said softly. “You- your phone went off just now.”

 

 **ZA:** u rly want t talk? nothng is wrong?

 

            The hesitation was nothing Otabek had seen in Zhibek before. His little sister had declared, at the age of ten, that once you decide to do something you should just _do_ it, because otherwise it’s like lying. While the years had refined her childhood logic (and, to some extent, her tact), she continued to spurn the _wait and see_ strategy.

            Which meant, he realized, that she wasn’t sure she wanted to talk to him.

            _Everything is fine,_ he typed, then deleted it. Of course his family knew that everything hadn’t been fine for a long time, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself otherwise.

 

 **OA:** Yes, I want to talk to you. Not because something is wrong.  

 **OA:** I miss you. I’m sorry.

 

            He glanced up at Yuri, who was studiously inspecting everything in the room except for Otabek’s phone – not that he could have understood more than a couple words of the Shala Kazakh they were speaking, much less in Zhibek’s carefree typing.

            Otabek thought he understood why Yuri had broken so many cell phones. He waited for it to ring, and when it finally did, he almost threw it across the room in shock.

            “Hey,” he said hesitantly. “Zhibeshka?”

            “Beka,” she replied. “Tell me you’re not in trouble.”

            “I’m not.” He reached out blindly and put his hand on Yuri’s shoulder, holding on to him like an anchor. “I promise.”

            “Okay.” Zhibek didn’t sound totally convinced. “Why now?”

            “I-“

_The last three years were a nightmare and I’m just waking up._

            “I miss you,” Otabek said again. “I’m- I know-“

            “I miss you too,” Zhibek told him, voice cracking. “We never went anywhere. You did.”

            “I’m sorry-“

            “I _know_ you’re sorry, but do you even get what you’re apologizing for or is it just something you say?” Her words were tight and airless, like the room, like his chest. “I tried for so long, we all did, you didn’t _care,_ you didn’t care that we missed you and we were worried about you, but now it’s you so you call?”

* * *

          Yuri watched as Otabek’s face hardened, smoothing into an impenetrable, fragile mask. He listened to Zhibek’s voice, rising and falling and rising again. He didn’t need to understand what they were saying to be certain that it wasn’t going as well as it could have.

            All in all, that wasn’t a surprise – Otabek’s decision to contact Zhibek first had always been a risk. He wasn’t going to spring this on his parents, he’d explained, not after the last surprise phone call they’d gotten from him. Aisulu, who Yuri had always believed to be the most rational of the Altin kids, would have been the easiest to talk to. But…

            _“I put Zhibek through more,”_ Otabek explained. _“I owe it to her.”_

He wished that for once, just _one fucking time,_ Otabek had taken the easy route.

            Beside him, Otabek was trying to speak, but his sentences were twisted and tangled. Though he tried not to eavesdrop, Yuri made out another apology, a couple of cities, Eid, and his own name.

            Silence.

            A quiet _click_ as the line went dead.

            Silence, again.

            Otabek slowly lowered the phone from his ear, not bothering to hide the tremble in his hands as they fell to the bed.

            “Beka?”

            “Zhibek’s pissed at me,” Otabek said hollowly. “She hung up.”

            “I’m sorry,” murmured Yuri. Even if this had been more or less expected, he watched as another fissure splintered Otabek’s heart. “Are you…”

            “She’s justified.” Otabek sighed, and Yuri closed his eyes for a moment. This was not great, and Otabek was going to refuse to deal with it. “I shouldn’t have pushed this on her.”

            “You don’t really believe that.” Except, at that moment, he could see that Otabek did believe it. “Beka, you told me this was probably going to happen, and _she_ called _you._ ”

            “To tell me to leave her alone, Yura,” Otabek retorted, and _fuck,_ Yuri hadn’t understood enough of their conversation to actually say so, but he’d heard Zhibek’s voice and even if she said it… Otabek forgot that not everyone waited to speak until they could say exactly what meant. “This was selfish. I wasn’t thinking about how they would feel.”

            He didn’t look at Yuri as he spoke. Yuri told himself that this was a time to be patient, not to let his own frustration and concern take control.

            “You haven’t thought about anything except what they’d feel,” Yuri snapped. “You keep putting yourself through hell because you tell yourself that it’s best for everyone else, like you know better than they do and _you_ get to make that choice.”

            That… could have gone better.

            “I know,” replied Otabek, and for all appearances he was completely and utterly calm, if one couldn’t hear his heart racing. “I made it all about myself. But I left it too long. I left it too late.”

            It sounded logical, with his fucking deep voice and slight frown, but with respect to substance, Yuri had heard more convincing statements from the cats.

            “Beka, you don’t get to decide that for them,” he pleaded. “If you’re going to give up now, don’t say you’re doing it for their sake, because you’re not.”

            Their eyes met for an instant as Otabek stood up, and the air was heavy with everything they should say. Otabek’s expression was somewhere beyond emptiness.

            He walked out of the room.

* * *

           _Space._

            He needed space, somewhere he could breathe without being choked by the smoke from the fires he’d set, every choice he’d made that ended in tears and ash. There was nothing to rebuild. It was burned to the ground, and even the embers were flickering into darkness.

            Giving up. Yuri said he was giving up, but that felt like the only option Otabek had, to let go of his handful of broken glass and accept that it would never be whole again.

            The air wasn’t any clearer in the hallway, but it felt thinner, short of oxygen.

            He’d walked out on Yuri. Yuri would be angry, too. He was running away, dashing every offering of help and hope to the ground without a second thought.

            He’d promised he wouldn’t leave.

            Otabek turned back and blinked dazedly when he walked into Yuri.

            “Beka,” he heard. “I’m sorry.”

            What was Yuri apologizing for? He’d only been honest.

            “I wasn’t going to leave,” he managed. “I wasn’t-“

            “Shut up, I know you weren’t,” Yuri said, his eyes shining with worry. “What do you need?”

            “I don’t know,” Otabek breathed, dully surprised as Yuri wrapped him in a tight hug. “Yura, I don’t know what to do. I’m going to choose wrong again. I don’t know how to stop. I don’t want to give up, but I don’t know what else to do.”

            “I shouldn’t have said you were giving up.” The coolness of Yuri’s skin had become a comfort, a balm against the heat that left him restless, its presence a reminder of what lay under his skin. “That wasn’t fair.”

            “What else would you call it, then?” He stepped away from Yuri as a hard laugh bubbled from his chest. “Running away? It’s not like I know how to do anything else. Zhibek could tell you that.”

            “Tell me why,” Yuri insisted. His eyes were bright. “Two months of therapy for god knows how many hours a week, you have to have an idea, you can’t forget everything Dr. Schäfer said when you need it. Tell me what the fuck you’re doing.”

            Otabek forced himself to take a deep breath, and this time, the air felt a little less empty. They _had_ talked about it, but two months was nothing against two years of habit. Every bit of progress Otabek thought he’d made could be broken against the rocks the moment something went wrong. At first, he’d been afraid that he would fall apart, willfully unaware that he already had, and then he’d convinced himself that he could be fixed.

            “Don’t shut down on me, Beka, please. Say something.”

            That made it simple. There were two choices: talk, or say nothing. It was easy to choose this time, because Yuri had already told him which one to pick. It was safe.

            “I- she said- she said maybe I-“ _Words._ As Yuri would say, fuck words. They could mean everything or nothing at the same time, but he could never get them to mean the _right_ thing. They were slippery and finicky, fighting with each other even as he tried to force them into reality. Yuri, impatient, flame-quick Yuri, gave him time to search. “I try to- to think about everything. What can happen. So I can plan.”

            They used to play pranks on each other, a battle of careful strategy on his side that was often foiled by Yuri’s spontaneity.

            “Except, I get- I get stuck, I can’t stop thinking about the worst outcome.”

            Yuri, never falling, but instead taken by something dark and cold that would look at him with slush-grey eyes. His family, pushing him away out of fear and pain. Otabek himself, his existence cut short by a mistake or the simple fact that his body had been twisted into something it was never built to survive.

            “And I… if I try and it happens anyway, it’s going to hurt more.” Otabek was sitting on the floor in the hallway among the scattered cat toys and carpet lint – maybe Zhibek’s jokes about Olympic athletes not being able to walk and chew gum at the same time weren’t too far off the mark, after all. “I don’t even know what’s real half the time and what’s in my head.” He looked up at Yuri, who was crouching next to him, all fangs and elbows and worry. “Yura, what should I do? Please. I- I can’t-”

            Yuri settled down next to him and picked at a soft clump of cat fur that had collected against the baseboard.

            “Beka, I don’t have the right answer,” he said quietly. “I just- I can tell you what I think, okay?”

            Otabek nodded. Anything was better than the overwhelming swirl of his own thoughts.

            “Okay. So. First off, I think you’re in apocalypse mode right now. Zhibek did basically what you told me she probably would, and you had a plan for that. Agree?”

            “… Yeah.” It had essentially boiled down to one, call Zhibek, two, get yelled at, three, hyperventilate, and four, try Aisulu. It wasn’t one of his better strategies, but _technically,_ everything had gone according to plan.

            The floor wasn’t uncomfortable, not compared to some of his previous living arrangements. He could sleep here, and in fact, probably had already.

            “And I think,” continued Yuri, “that Zhibek wouldn’t have been as upset as she was if she didn’t want to talk to you.”

The white carpet was slightly dusty and in need of vacuuming. Yuri added to it, letting pieces of hair fall from the ball of fur he played with – he’d never been one to worry about dirt, unlike Otabek’s father, who would be scrubbing the corners with a toothbrush if he were there.

“That’s why I was so shitty to you in the beginning,” he added quietly. “I thought you were going to take off as soon as you got what you wanted, so even if you didn’t hate me, I didn’t want to let you get close again. I think- Zhibek and I, we always kinda understood each other.”

“She’s angry,” Otabek disagreed halfheartedly, but he wasn’t sure whether he was talking to Yuri or the tiny spark of hope struggling to burn. Zhibek had tried to talk to him about Yuri. They’d been friends, of a sort. He’d brushed her off, too focused on his own sense of loss to remember that it was shared.

“I mean, fuck yeah, she is,” Yuri replied, rolling his eyes. “People can have more than one emotion at a time, even if _you_ tend to pick one and go zero to a hundred.”

“Yuri Plisetsky, accusing me of emotional overreactions.”

“Takes one to know one, Beka. You did say you always thought we were alike.” The thread of tension snapped, leaving Otabek dizzy and off-balance, but no longer in free-fall. “Okay, look, if you’re gonna take another stress nap, you have to at least move to the bed. The floor is disgusting.” He flicked a bit of cat hair at Otabek to illustrate his point.

“I think… I think it’s going to be harder if I leave this for later,” Otabek sighed, brushing the bit of fluff from his shirtsleeve. Then, for good measure: “Fuck.”

Yuri snorted, then sobered.

“You’ve done harder stuff than this, Beka. I know you have.”

“I-“ Otabek paused, considering. Had he? Chasing answers, dodging their teeth, refusing to flinch as the daggers sank to the bone. Walking away from his family, not once but twice, and every day in between. Losing Yuri, but that had happened _to_ him, he hadn’t done anything. Finding him again. Becoming a world-class athlete barely registered, didn’t even feel like something that had been part of his life. “No.”

Yuri tipped his head, wrinkling his nose like he did right before he said something insightful or rude (or both), and blinked slowly.

“Nothing… I knew what was going to happen. I didn’t- I wasn’t hoping things would get better, because I knew they wouldn’t,” said Otabek, feeling the pieces fall together in his mind. “Even- even when I was looking for you, there wasn’t anything else to lose. Nothing I cared about, anyway. Just… just me.”

“To lose- you mean- _fuck,_ ” Yuri hissed. “Beka, you promised me you didn’t have a fucking death wish, and you thought I- what you thought I was would- and it didn’t even matter to you?”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, but this time, for the _first_ time, he was apologizing to himself. Only a few months before, Otabek hadn’t bothered to think twice about throwing himself to the wolves (no pun intended), not if it meant he could get an answer. As long as the end was the same, what difference did it make how and when it came about, he’d believed. It was funny how his lowest point had led to so much more. “I’m not there anymore. I care now. That’s why this is harder.”

“I’m so glad you found me,” whispered Yuri. “I’m so glad we found you.”

* * *

“Beka?”

“Aika, I- hi. Please don’t hang up.”

“I won’t, Beka, I promise. Are you okay?”

Aisulu spoke, soft and steady, like Otabek was a frightened animal, ready to spook and shy away. She probably talked to her kids in the same slow, soothing voice, and maybe it should have felt condescending, but instead it was merely a reminder - that Otabek had been the one to push them away, in the beginning.

            “I’m… safe. I’m doing better. I promise. I’m not- I’m not going to act like I did before, Aika. I won’t cut you off again. I know you don’t have any reason to believe me, but I won’t.”

            “Beka, I’ll always be here for you, don’t worry. You’re my little brother.”

            “But- before- this summer- your kids. You said-“

            “I’m so sorry, Beka. That was cruel. I thought that maybe they’d remind you that we’re family, no matter what. And I-“

            “You didn’t want them to get to know me and then watch me leave. They’re too young to remember, but they might not have been the next time.”  

            “Yes. I… Yes. I’m still sorry. But when you came by in August, you sounded like you were saying goodbye, like you wouldn’t be back. I was scared, and I didn’t help you at all.”

            “I want to try again.”

            “You-“

            “I understand if you don’t want to give me another chance. I- I wasn’t being rational, I know I put you and Mom and Dad and Zhibeshka through hell, but… please.”

            “You never had to ask, you- oh. You talked to Zhibek first, didn’t you?”

            “I… yes.”

            “Oh, Beka, you’ve always been a noble idiot. Whatever she said, she- well, she probably meant it, but she’ll come around, if… you really want this?”

            “I- I’m going to therapy now. I’m staying with- with really good people. They’re helping me a lot. I really mean it, I’m not going to run away again. I, um. One of the people here, Viktor, I want to give you his phone number, so you can- so you can check up. And. I don’t want to scare Mom and Dad again, but I want to talk to them too. I- I was thinking we could skype, set up a call, I won’t miss it, and if I do you can call Viktor so you don’t have to worry-”

            “I’m so proud of you, Beka, I’m- I know it’s been hard, even if you wouldn’t talk about it. I’m sorry I didn’t help more, I-“

            “I don’t think you could have.”

            Even if Aisulu and Otabek were never as close as they could have been, they were more similar than he remembered – he heard the unspoken _I could have tried_ as clearly as if it had fallen from his own lips.

            “I’ll set up the skype calls. I’ll talk to Zhibek, too. I- whatever you need me to do, Beks.”

            “Thank you. I… I’m going to make more mistakes, I’m not- I’m really doing better, but I’m not… great. I’m sorry.”

            “It’s okay. It’ll be okay. Beka, I… will you ever tell us what happened to you?”

            That was the crack that had formed between them, a gaping canyon separating Otabek from his family, but it was time to build a bridge.

            “I- sometime. I’ll tell you everything sometime, but… it’s going to take me a while.”

            Not everything had to happen at once. Occasionally, it was better to focus on the trees and forget the forest for a while.

            “As long as you need, and if you can’t, it’s- that’s okay too. I, well. I never thought you’d actually admit anything had happened, and I guess I shouldn’t have pushed. It felt like we couldn’t help if we didn’t know.”

            “Can you- Mom and Dad-“

            “I’ll ask them not to bring it up until you’re ready.”

            “Thank you, Aika. And- and thank you for not asking me to come home.”

            A pause. Otabek checked to make sure the line hadn’t gone dead.

            “I hope you’ll visit, when you’re ready, but if you’re somewhere that’s really good for you, that’s where you need to be. It- it sounds like you’re already home, Beka.”

           

            He was home.


	40. Chapter 40

            Change happened on its own timescale, with no thought spared for such linear things as hours or weeks. Furthermore, it was impossible to trace alterations in the fabric of life to a single point, the way one might measure seconds passing through an hourglass. Every instant, at first glance, could appear to be the catalyst that moved a mountain, but upon looking closer, it may have only shifted a single grain of sand.

            “No, no, I completely understand, Mrs.- Emina, thank you,” Viktor said into the phone. He’d had to sit down several minutes into the conversation to avoid being mown down by Emina Altin’s soft yet unyielding voice. “Of course, please feel free to call anytime. My schedule is a bit odd, but I’ll get back to you as soon as I can, and one of us will let you know if anything comes up. Otabek’s a great kid, we love having him here.”

            He ended the call with a sigh of relief and went downstairs to find Otabek doing pushups in the living room with Yuri draped across his back. The next best thing to a run, Viktor supposed, watching Otabek drop to his stomach and twist, dislodging Yuri and rolling to his feet in one smooth movement. As if choreographed, Yuri took the proffered hand and pulled himself upright, leaving Viktor to wonder if they’d done this before or if they were just that in sync.

            (It was impossible to tell – one evening, Yuri had launched himself from the top of the staircase and let Otabek catch him at the bottom. When Viktor asked if they’d been practicing, Otabek had dropped Yuri, let out a long-suffering sigh, and shook his head.)

            “Your parents are very nice,” Viktor said as Otabek did his futile best to brush away some of the cat hair on his shirt. “I did manage to convince your mother that we haven’t kidnapped you and locked you in the basement.”

            Viktor had previously described Otabek as determined (among other, less flattering terms, during periods of particular exasperation, but only in the privacy of his own mind), but Otabek’s mother could bring down countries with sheer power of will. His usual strategy of artfully dodging topics by being alternately charming and airheaded was about as effective as spitting into a forest fire. The subject of _by the way, your son is a werewolf and I’m a vampire, as is my brother who happens to be Otabek’s old best friend and current boyfriend_ was less of a stumbling block and more of a reinforced barricade he finally scaled by announcing that _yes,_ he did believe that Otabek would explain more when he was ready, and _no,_ Viktor would not circumvent his trust.

            Only afterwards did he realize that it was a test that would have made Chris proud, and she warmed considerably after confirming that Viktor wasn’t hiding anything suspicious.

            Otabek smiled at him, the expression an almost imperceptible flick of the corner of his mouth – another change, he thought, remembering his first impression of Otabek as someone who had forgotten how to smile a long time ago.

            For all their kindness and obvious love, Viktor thought he understood why Otabek had felt the need to leave. To someone who wasn’t in a state to push back against the well-intentioned protection of the Altin family it would have been smothering.

            Like Yuri, Otabek wasn’t someone who could ever tolerate being caged, whether the bars were made of steel or circumstance.

* * *

**AA:** The twins are actually talking now.

 **AA:** Timur started picking up words pretty early, but Roza was really quiet.

 **AA:** She’s like you were. Nothing, and then a few months ago she came into the kitchen and asked for a glass of juice, please and thank you. Gave their dad the shock of his life.

 **OA:** Would it be okay if they joined the next skype call? I’d like to meet them properly.

 **AA:** I was going to surprise you. They’ll be visiting their other grandparents tomorrow, but after that, you’ll be introduced to all two dozen of their stuffed animals.

* * *

            “Yuuri, do we seriously have the outline finished, or am I hallucinating right now?” Phichit flipped through the binder that held the draft, heavily marked with notes in red ink, with the air of an old veteran. “We can’t actually be _four months_ ahead of schedule.”

            “There’s a lot of information we weren’t planning for,” replied Yuuri, wedging his laptop onto their rickety table between an empty mug and a stack of books. The table groaned. “We’re not done yet.”

            “But we could be by July,” Phichit said. July, three months before their semiformal deadline of a year in Berlin. The thought was thrilling, and yet- “Do you know what you’re going to do?”

            They would have to spend months distributing their information to the various, informal groups that made up supernatural communities in Japan, and even longer working with Minako’s network of friends and acquaintances responsible for negotiating the project’s inception to ensure that everything was going well. But that wasn’t what Phichit meant.

            “I still have a couple of classes to finish,” Yuuri said quietly. “If our advisor managed to work it out so I can graduate.”

            His position in the university was unconventional, to say the least – technically a student, part of a department that was half-funded and officially nothing more than a curiosity, and scrambling for whatever degree they would agree to give him.

            “After that, I thought I’d help Minako and my parents remodel the onsen, but…”

            “But Viktor,” Phichit murmured sympathetically. “Have you talked about it?”

            “Some.” Yuuri sighed. If any vampire was capable of traveling safely, it was Viktor. It was not, however, Yurio. “We decided that we’re not going to decide anything yet, but I think I’m going to come back to Berlin.”

* * *

 

            “They might know the best way to tell them. Convince them, without- but I couldn’t get that without everything else.”

            Viktor regarded Otabek, who was clutching his coffee mug with determined care so as not to break the ceramic.

            “You still feel the same way about it?” Viktor asked cautiously, trying not to let his own thoughts on the matter show in his face.

            “I don’t know.” Otabek sounded tired, as always, but his uncertainty was backed with a new sense of – no, not hope, but confidence in himself. “I think… I’ve been wrong a lot. If I’m not, it won’t change anything, except- except I never got a chance to say goodbye before.”

            “You don't like surprises,” commented Viktor. Otabek let out a huff of quiet amusement and nodded. “You know that I have, well, predictions, based on some other information.”

            He watched Otabek consider it for a moment, expecting the answer even before Otabek reached his conclusion.

            “I’d rather not get my hopes up,” he said softly, and paused. “I think I shouldn’t tell Yura until I’m sure. He has enough to worry about.”

            “Otabek,” warned Viktor, “Yuri doesn’t think like that, but he would have trouble not pushing you to the decision he wants. It would be more difficult to decide what _you_ want, instead of what he wants.”

            “Oh.” Otabek blinked slowly, stalling as he was brought face-to-face with his old habits. “Yes. Thank you.”

            After a few more minutes, Otabek left the library to wash his coffee mug (or, more likely, refill it), and Viktor leaned back in his chair. If he was right, Otabek had a few more surprises in store for him, each bringing their own set of challenges. He thought about Yuuri. If Otabek didn’t go looking, Viktor would eventually have to find out for himself.

            After all, there was always another way. He’d spent enough time letting himself get swept along by the current, and now it was time to swim.

* * *

            Two weeks later, at Otabek’s request, Dr. Schäfer tore a sheet off her notepad. He read the words, just a name and address, and tucked it into his wallet.

            Not yet, he decided. But maybe sometime. Maybe soon.

* * *

**ZA:** aika sd i shld talk to u

 **OA:** If you want to.

 **ZA:** if i say the wrong thing ru gonna leave agn bc fuck that

 

            “Zhibeshka, I didn’t leave because of anything you said.”

            “Well, we sure didn’t manage to say anything to stop you,” said Zhibek with a bite to her words. “We just weren’t enough for you to stay.”

            “I promise that wasn’t it,” Otabek insisted, and paused. “I… I didn’t want you to have to ignore your life for me.”

            “ _Have_ to- Beka, is this about the stupid university thing again?”

            “It wasn’t fair to you, dropping out,” he said. “Not after how hard you worked.”

            “You’re just like mom sometimes, you know?” He could hear the scowl in her voice. “Amazingly enough, even the youngest child is capable of making her own decisions and I don’t need you to decide what’s best.”

            “But-“

            “Oh, shut the fuck up, Beka. You and I were always closer, Mom and Aika treated you like you were five years old, Dad tried but his only actual strategy was to try to get you to go to mosque with him more. And I was the only one who actually knew what was up with you and Yuri. I didn’t have to do anything, but I _decided_ that I could go back to London later because it was more important to me to be home.” She sighed. “Yeah, it kinda sucked, but I was okay with it until you ran off anyway. Maybe we weren’t who you wanted, but you didn’t let us even try to help you.”

            “I know. I should have,” he replied softly, and Zhibek let out a surprised huff of air. “I really did want to be home with you, but I convinced myself that I couldn’t be.”

            Otabek wasn’t sure he’d been wrong about that, even if his way of dealing with it had been, objectively, terrible.

            “No, you wanted Yuri,” she said, shifting to surprising gentleness. “I… Beka, you threw away everything when he died. Your skating, your friends, us – you gave me your _bike,_ I didn’t even have a license. You’re not supposed to destroy yourself for people you love.”

            Zhibek had refused to destroy herself for him, wouldn’t let herself be vulnerable until she knew that he was going to try. She may be his little sister, but now she was as much an adult as he was. Maybe more.

            “That wasn’t all of it,” Otabek told her. It still hurt to talk about losing Yuri, but it was the ache of a fresh scar as opposed to an infected wound. “It was…” Not the last straw, but too much to bear. “A big part.”

            “You still love him.” Unlike the rest of his family, Zhibek didn’t treat him like he was made of glass. He was still her older brother.

            “I do,” Otabek said, relieved that the phone call hid his soft smile. “I always will.”

            “You miss him?”

            “Sometimes,” he admitted. In the moments after a nightmare, before he could truly wake up, the loss crept back. Other times, it hit unexpectedly, like missing a step in the dark, a harsh lurch in his stomach before he could calm himself. “I’m okay now.” And, because he had to do this sooner rather than later: “I’m, um. I’m seeing someone.”

            Zhibek’s sudden crow of delight had him laughing, startled, as she pounced.

            “Viktor’s brother? I _told_ Aika, I knew it.”

            “Yeah.”

            “What’s his name? You still haven’t told us,” she demanded.

            “It’s- um, it’s-“ He couldn’t say _Yuri,_ not without convincing his family that he was nowhere near okay and in fact bordering on creepily obsessive. Viktor and Yuri had also agreed with him that he couldn’t explain that it _was_ Yuri, even if he didn’t have to also get into the whole werewolf thing, because even if they took it well, any mistake could draw attention and put them at risk. They’d talked about this, about how to deal with it, but every bit of the plan flew out of his head when Zhibek asked. “It’s, uh, George. He’s George.”

            “George, huh?” Zhibek turned the name over on her tongue like a strange fruit. “That’s… a name. Isn’t he Russian? I know Viktor is, Mom said so.”

            “He… Their family has a complicated history,” Otabek said, closing his eyes. He was never going to hear the end of this. “He’s Russian.”

            “Okay. Well. Obviously, I’m going to have to talk to _George._ Someone’s gotta pass on the embarrassing tales of your childhood, Beka,” she replied gleefully, before growing quiet. “Does… does he know about Yuri?”

            “Yeah, he understands,” Otabek murmured. “He knows.”

 

_(“George?” Yuri demanded. “You couldn’t have gone with anything else like Vlad or Dmitri or Ruslan, I have to be George now?”_

_“It’s the English version of your name, Yura, it’s the first thing I thought of, I’m sorry.”_

_“Fucking_ George, _” muttered Yuri.)_

            Ten days later, Yuri and Viktor woke Otabek up and half-dragged him out to the driveway, where he found a familiar motorcycle still adorned with delivery tags.

            “It’s not registered here yet or whatever,” Yuri told him, “but Zhibek called Viktor and said she was tired of it taking up room in storage.”

* * *

            At the end of March, Yuri watched Mila skate in the World Championships as he had in the Olympics. This time, she faltered in her short program, fell in the free skate, and came out with a hard-won bronze.

            He winced as she hit the ice and came up with less than her usual grace. It wasn’t the sort of program Yuri would have wanted to go out on, if he’d been given the chance to finish his career, but Mila didn’t look upset as she announced her retirement with the medal glinting against the jeweled purple of her costume.

            She also didn’t look upset when Sara Crispino, her now-former choreographer and now-former girlfriend, dropped to one knee and pulled a ring from her bouquet of roses.

 

 **YP:** have you ever been chill in your entire life

 **MB:**  :)

 **YP:** congrats, баба

* * *

            It was early May before Otabek’s bike was street legal. The years in storage hadn’t been overly kind to it, nor had the months on the road before that.

            Part of him, too, was wary of the motorcycle in a way he’d never been before: not the instinctive caution that came from understanding the risks of speed and power with only a thin layer of leather protecting his body from the harsh possibility of accidents, but an avoidance of the memories of loneliness that had permeated the shining black paint.

            He didn’t touch the bike except to affix its new license plate until Nikolai - whose back surgery had gone well enough that not only was he able to travel but also able to leave his cane behind most days – sat down at the kitchen table next to Yuri one evening.

            “I always wanted a motorcycle,” said Nikolai, sipping his coffee. “I never got the chance, with the economy as it was.”

            “Dedushka, really?” Yuri grinned, and Otabek chuckled at the smear of bright red painted across Yuri’s upper lip. “Biker Grandpa, rolling up to the rink with a leather jacket and pirozhki.”

            “Have you ever ridden?” Otabek asked, and Nikolai shook his head and gave a small shrug. He added, hesitantly, “Um. Would you like to? If your back is up for it?”

            Yuri took enough photos to fill an entire album.

* * *

            “Computers are important, yeah?” Yuri asked, looking up from his phone as Viktor walked through the hallway and past the living room. He rolled his eyes as Viktor glanced from Yuri’s phone to the laptop lying on the coffee table. “Shut up, I mean old men like you would give me money to… I don’t know, make websites or something, whatever.”

            “Theoretically, yes, I suppose that is how old men like me get websites,” replied Viktor, arching an eyebrow. “Any reason?”

            “Well, I can’t fucking make money skating anymore,” grumbled Yuri. “Not unless I put a bag over my head and teach night classes, and I’d rather stick a garlic clove up my ass than teach anyway. Computers don’t complain about practicing.”

            “You don’t have to worry about money, _котёнок,_ ” said Viktor, who was missing the point as usual.

            “I’m not,” Yuri snapped. Despite initial protests, his grandfather was more than comfortably secure with the insurance payments from after the accident, and there was still a steady trickle of royalties from various skating merchandise. Even without Viktor’s aid, he’d have enough to get by. “I’m bored. I want to do something. Beka was looking up German classes, and the Freie Universität has some courses online. And a couple of night classes for the winter semester. If I was late the first week or so, the rest of the term would be after sunset.”

            “That sounds like fun,” chirped Viktor, who had begun to beam. “And of course, you’d be able to do most of your work from home, so daylight wouldn’t be a problem.”

            “No, _really_? I hadn’t thought of that at all,” he muttered. “So if I wanted to try hunting again sometime, just for emergencies because there’s no fucking way I’m going to make a habit of eating Bambi, could you shut up about squirrel families this time?”

            Viktor’s smile grew, and Yuri scowled to hide the flare of pride that rose in his chest.

* * *

            The late morning sun was hot against Otabek’s skin as he stepped outside, but it did nothing to soothe the prickles of tension that crept up his arms and across his shoulders. Nothing was going to change, but everything was going to be different.

            He had a place here, no matter what.

            He had a home. He had Yuri. He had, more than he had ever expected, his family.

            It was time to know whether they would have him, too.

            The drive to Strausberg would take a bit over an hour. Plenty of time to change his mind, to think it over. The road had always helped clear Otabek’s head.

            As the sun passed its peak in the sky and began to sink slowly, Otabek lifted his hand to knock on the front door of a large house that smelled overwhelmingly of wolf.


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are. 
> 
> I also made a [spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/rrcopley12/playlist/0PfAIf1AsdjikQSqh4xepB) for this story.

            Otabek lowered his hand and took a deep breath, trying to steady the nerves that clawed at his pounding heart, but the air was heavy with promise. Any lingering doubt that he was in the right place, that the door would open to reveal a very confused, very human occupant, had been quickly crushed by the scent surrounding him.

            An eternity seemed to pass before the door finally swung open, but Otabek was highly aware that no more than a few seconds had passed – the woman standing across the threshold had heard him approach and waited for him to announce his presence.

            Their eyes met, hazel to brown, and Otabek bit his lip to fight back the sudden weakness in his knees. He dropped his eyes immediately, but the brief contact felt like a lightning bolt: he was an interloper, and every cell in his body knew it. He wasn’t in danger, Otabek told himself with his eyes fixed on the woman’s blue-socked feet, but his instincts clamored at him to run or roll over onto his back and bare his throat. He briefly considered the latter before realizing that his muscles were locked too tightly with tension to move.

            In the corner of Otabek’s vision, he saw her adjust her half-frame glasses, look him over from head to toe, and tuck a strand of steel-grey hair behind her ear.

            “Wer sind sie?” Her voice gave neither a hint of emotion nor a fraction of an inch of room for Otabek to relax. He was fairly certain he’d lost the ability to blink. She waited for an answer.

            “I-“ He swallowed. German. His meager beginner’s grasp of the language wasn’t going to be sufficient if they didn’t share another tongue. He should have called ahead, but even forcing himself to start his bike’s engine had been like jumping into a frozen river. If he’d stopped to dip in a toe and test the temperature, Otabek could never have left the shore. “Ich bin-“

            “Ah, it’s you,” she said in heavily accented English. “You speak no German?”

            Otabek shook his head. He wasn’t sure he could speak anything at the moment. She turned her head and called back into the house without raising her voice.

            “ _Mini,_ komm bitte her! Ich brauch’ dich."

            He heard feet pounding down a staircase hidden within the house, and a moment later, a mane of blond and red hair appeared at the woman’s shoulder. A boy stood under the tuft of hair.

            “Hello!” His accent was similar to Yuuri’s, and Otabek, who had managed to tear his eyes from the ground, did his best to look at him without making eye contact again. “English, huh? We all keep telling Ingrid that she should learn English but she says she’s too busy with _work_ and _taxes_ and _not caring_.”

            Ingrid murmured something in fast, quiet German.

            “Right, yeah! This is Ingrid and I’m Kenjirou Minami, but they all call me Minami or Mini here because they can’t really say Kenjirou without it sounding weird,” continued Minami. “Ingrid says she was told a few weeks ago that someone might stop by to ask some questions, so that’s you, right? What’s your name?”

            “Otabek Altin,” said Otabek, reeling internally. Dr. Schäfer would have talked to Ingrid to make sure it was acceptable (and safe) for him to drop by. His muscles were slowly unclenching as Minami chattered on.

            He followed them into the house, doing his best to keep his breathing under control. Otabek’s instincts told him that Ingrid was in charge, and now that she’d invited him in he’d be welcomed by anyone else who may appear, but his heart jumped and stuttered as the door shut behind them. He didn’t dare inspect Ingrid more closely, and instead focused on Minami.

            He was young, probably around Otabek’s age, and about a dozen centimeters shorter – Otabek wondered when and how he was bitten. He seemed too sweet and lighthearted for such a change.

            The living room was filled with old, comfortable furniture, a far cry from Viktor’s stately monochrome aesthetic. Several blankets and large pillows – dog beds, Otabek realized, stifling a hysterical giggle – were scattered across the floor.

            “I will make tea,” Ingrid said, enunciating carefully. She looked at Otabek and Minami. “Sit, please.”

            The _please_ was a mere formality. Otabek’s knees buckled under her gaze, dumping him heavily onto the sofa, which was covered with a light coat of shed wolf hair.

            “I was supposed to vacuum yesterday,” Minami told him sheepishly, “but then I had to run into the city and talk to the school administration because they won’t put me in the class I need.”

            “University?” Otabek asked, launching into small talk in an effort to cling to the last vestiges of normality.

            Minami nodded.

            “Medical school! I’m going to be a doctor. My brother is already, but he went to school in Japan. Ingrid and my parents are old friends so I was able to come here instead. I have an apartment in Mitte so I’m closer to classes but I stay here weekends and a lot of nights because it kinda sucks being by ourselves, you know?” He paused for breath. “What about you? You’re not German, are you Russian? You sound kind of Russian. You can’t have been here long or we would have met already, there aren’t too many of us around Berlin. Who are you staying with? You smell like vampire.” He sniffed thoughtfully. “Or I think you do, I’ve never actually met a vampire but Berthold described it pretty well. Do you live there or are you going to move here? That would be cool, we have an extra room since Max is in New York.”

            “I’m from Kazakhstan,” Otabek replied, flinching under the onslaught of questions. “I- since October. I’m staying with. Um. Vampires.”

            “Oh, shit,” Minami muttered.

 _“Mini,”_ Ingrid called from the kitchen.

            “Ja, ich weiß. Werewolves, not swearwolves _,_ ” he sighed back. Otabek blinked. “It’s from a movie. Sorry, I’m making you nervous, I didn’t mean to talk so much. Are you new?”

            “Three years,” admitted Otabek, unsure if that counted as new – after all, it could be half his remaining life. The reason he’d come hit him like a tidal wave. “Are you?”

            “No, I was born like this,” replied Minami, tilting his head as Otabek inhaled sharply. “Wait, you didn’t-“

            “I… I haven’t met any other werewolves before. Not since I was, um. Bitten.”

            “Fuck,” breathed Minami. Ingrid stepped back into the living room with a tea tray and fire in her eyes.

* * *

            Yuri didn’t wake to a cold bed – Otabek must have turned on the electric blanket when he got up. His phone informed him that it was almost sunset and displayed a handful of new text messages.

 

 **OA:** I might be back late today.

 

            The next one, sent an hour later, simply read, _“I’ll be late.”_

            If Otabek wanted to be cryptic, that was that. Yuri texted back a brief acknowledgement (the shortest message could still ignite a flare of anxiety, but Otabek never left one unanswered) and rolled out of bed. As he changed out of his pyjamas, Yuri wondered whether the text meant late-late or Otabek-late. Otabek had mentioned looking into DJing again and might have decided to spend the night in the city, but something in his tone seemed off.

            Well, he’d explain when he felt like it. It was easier to be patient when Yuri could trust that Otabek would always tell him what he needed to know.

            Eventually.

            He was _trying_ to be patient, anyway.

            Yuri was brushing the knots out of his hair when a knock echoed up from the hallway – Otabek’s warning that he was opening the door before the sun was fully set.

            Huh. He hadn’t heard the bike pulling into the driveway, which might have meant that Otabek took the train, but Yuri remembered being briefly woken by the hum of its engine. Alarm bells began to ring in the back of his head, and he bounded downstairs once the door was safely shut.

            Viktor had beaten him to it, and stood at the library threshold, watching, but Otabek looked straight past him to where Yuri waited at the bottom of the staircase. The circles under his eyes stood out in stark relief against his skin, which was pale under his summer tan, but Otabek’s eyes shone with nervous energy. The scent Yuri had mentally catalogued as _Otabek_ now lingered in the air with a dozen new variations, too soft and subtle to tease apart.

            “Beka, where’s your bike?”

            “My bike,” said Otabek slowly, as if he’d never heard the words before. Shellshocked, Yuri thought. Had Otabek been in an accident? Yuri fought down another wave of searing concern, because if there had been a wreck he at least wasn’t – couldn’t be – seriously injured. “I left it. Didn’t want to- to drive.”

            “Is there something important?” Viktor asked. Otabek paused, and nodded. Viktor tipped his head and frowned slightly, leaving Yuri sure that he was, once again, three steps behind everyone else. “Is it urgent?”

            “It- it’s-“ Otabek stuttered into silence, choking out what might have been a cough or a slightly hysterical laugh. “I-“

            “Let’s go sit down,” suggested Viktor, breathing in, smelling the same strange layers in the air that teased at a suspicion growing in Yuri’s chest. When Otabek didn’t move, Viktor touched his elbow and flicked his gaze towards Yuri, then to the living room. “Come on, now.”

            He half-guided, half-pushed Otabek to the couch, and Yuri plopped down beside him. There were a few short pieces of hair stuck to his green t-shirt, threads of grey and brown. Too long and coarse for cat hair, more like-

            “Wolves,” breathed Yuri. He’d known Otabek was thinking about it, of course he had, but the actuality of it was distorted and dreamlike. Yuri reached for Otabek’s hand, needing to feel the beat of his pulse, the heat of his presence - reassurance that they hadn’t been torn apart already. “Beka?”

            Waiting for Otabek to confirm his guess, though Yuri’s doubt had crystalized into a flinty core of certainty, was more painful than the touch of silver. It weighed him down, a cold numbness that spread through his body, like drops of rain coursing down his skin. Unable to move, unable to speak, unable to think; this is how Viktor must have felt, waiting for Yuri to wake up, to see if he’d wake up, almost exactly three years before. No, Yuri decided a moment later, it would be before that.

            Inevitable, inescapable, whatever path it may take.

            This is what Viktor would have felt like, kneeling on the bloodied ice beside him, waiting for the last beat of his heart.

            “I’m not a battery,” Otabek eventually murmured into Yuri’s ear – the space between them had vanished, giving way to desperate touch.

            Viktor stood up.

            “I’ll give you two some space,” he said softly. “I’ll be upstairs if you need anything.”

            He left. Yuri didn’t bother to tear his attention away from Otabek, whose body was knotted tight with tension.

            “Beka, what are you saying?” He wasn’t a battery, he wasn’t…

_‘_ _I feel like a battery. I'm using so much energy, and I don’t know what will happen when it runs out.’_

            Hope was too much of a risk, but Yuri didn’t want to reach for anger either, not now.

            “I called you in the middle of the night once because I had a headache and googled meningitis,” whispered Otabek. “Yura, I’m so sorry, I-“

            “Say it,” Yuri pleaded. “Beka, please tell me.”

            “I’m not like a wolf.” Otabek’s voice didn’t change, didn’t rise or fall above its hoarse, shocked monotone, but a dam had begun to break behind his eyes. “Yura, I’m- I’m okay. I’ll be okay.”

            Kissing Otabek was the most important task in the universe; Yuri’s lips brushed against the heat of his cheek, his forehead, the corner of his eye, damp with saltwater, before he buried his face in Otabek’s hair.

            “Yura, too tight,” Otabek said breathlessly, doing nothing to push him away. “You’re not mad?”

            “Beshka. What the actual fuck.”

            “I made you think- for months- I was so- if I’d just-“

            “You idiot,” whispered Yuri, kissing him again. “I literally… holy fuck.” He let his head rest against Otabek’s forehead as a realization rose in his mind. “You did it. You googled it, didn’t you, before. You looked up wolves on Wikipedia and convinced yourself you had the _lifespan of a wolf._ I can’t fucking believe you.”

            “I’m not good at things, Yura.” Otabek’s shoulders shook with overwhelmed, airless laughter.

            “And I know you and I just _went along with it_.” Distantly, Yuri thought about the state of mind Otabek must have been in, alone and scared, trapped in a body and a life he could no longer understand. Trying to make sense of it the only way he knew how. “You moron, I love you.” Yuri paused as the other side of reality caught up – maybe now wasn’t the time to continue believing Otabek’s perspective. “But, everything, you… being so tired, you literally passed out after transforming?”

            “They said it’s mostly normal because I’m new, no one showed me how to make it easier,” explained Otabek quietly, as if he couldn’t quite believe it either. Yuri was sure he couldn’t, that the full force of his discovery hadn’t hit yet. “And that I’m- I was fighting it, the wolf, it made it worse, and the rest of it- Dr. Schäfer said-“

            “Fatigue is a symptom of depression,” hissed Yuri, closing his eyes. “And you _don’t sleep._ ”

            “I don’t sleep,” agreed Otabek. “Yura, I might have caused an international incident.”

            “Beka.”

            “Ingrid, she’s basically in charge, when she found out no one came back for me, she wasn’t happy. She’s… imagine Lilia, but times ten.”

            Yuri wanted to hear everything, demand that Otabek explain every detail, as if by telling the story he could cement it into reality and otherwise it might slip away once more, nothing but a dream. However, that had to wait. Otabek was beginning to slump with exhaustion in Yuri’s arms, and even good news would take its emotional toll. Everything _should_ wait, but one question forced itself into Yuri’s mouth.

            “You have time, Beka. _We_ have time,” he said wonderingly. “How… how much?”

            “I don’t know,” Otabek replied. His voice shook slightly, coming out as a hoarse rasp. “The healing, Yura. It heals everything. I was right before, ageing is damage, until something happens, I’m- I’m like you.”

            The room blurred around them, disappearing into a shimmering veil.

            “I don’t have to lose you,” he breathed.

* * *

            The next evening, Otabek was able to tell them more about the werewolf… pack, Viktor decided. He’d have to ask what the preferred terms were, especially considering the rather tense relationship between werewolves and the rest of the community. It wouldn’t do to make things difficult for anyone.

            Yuri, uncharacteristically, was quiet except for a couple of requests for clarification – he was twitchy and uncertain, clinging to details and reaching out to touch Otabek, reassuring himself that it was more than a vivid dream.

            Except for a single, hard stare, he didn’t look at Viktor.

            Otabek, too, was more lost for words than usual, but that was no surprise. After all, his presumed death sentence had been commuted to a life term.

            “Six people live there now,” he said quietly. “Six of us. A few more nearby. I met two besides Ingrid and Minami.”

            Whenever the topic veered too close to functional immortality, Otabek changed the subject.

            “I don’t know,” he replied tersely, when Yuri asked how old he thought Ingrid must be, if she was in charge. “Minami is twenty-two. He’s a fan of your Yuuri.”

            Viktor replayed that sentence in his head a few times. _His_ Yuuri, that was nice. A fan, understandable, who wasn’t- wait.

            “A fan?”

            “When Yuuri danced,” explained Otabek. “Minami lived in Japan until last year. He has posters.” Then, with a slight flush: “He gave me one. I’d like to ask Yuuri to sign it for him, as a thank you.”

            Yuuri had been anxious that Viktor was an Olympian forty-some years ago, but neglected to mention that he wasn’t just a dancer, he’d been a _principle_ dancer, with merchandise.

            Part of Viktor thought that Ingrid must be quite clever to use Minami as a buffer between herself and Otabek. The boy sounded cheerful, friendly, and most importantly, non-threatening. Furthermore, he had an interest in Yuuri, which could make things simpler.

            The rest of Viktor was busy figuring out how to get his hands on as many Katsuki Yuuri posters as possible.

            “I should go,” Otabek said finally. “Ingrid asked to talk to Dr. Schäfer, there’s things about how… how we think, that’ll help with, um. With some stuff.”

            The moment Otabek was out the door and out of earshot, Yuri stood and turned on Viktor.

            “You _knew_ ,” he hissed. “You’re not surprised, you fucking _knew_.”

            “I didn’t know,” Viktor replied softly. “I guessed. I wasn’t sure.”

            “You didn’t tell him. You didn’t tell me.” Yuri was close to tears, which meant he would be harsh and acerbic, inching dangerously close to vicious. A bead of dark blood stood out on his lip where he’d bitten it, distracted and tense. “You just let us-“

            “You both asked me not to,” interjected Viktor, cutting him off. Yuri’s temper sought a target to vent the stress built up under his skin. It wasn’t aimed at Otabek, which was good, but Viktor had come to learn the biting cruelty of Yuri’s moods when he couldn’t – or refused to – find a healthy outlet. Christophe had a reason not to like Yuri, when they’d met in passing years before. “Yuri, I don’t know if I did the right thing, but most of my other mistakes were because I didn’t listen. When I invited Otabek to stay, it worked out, but I should have talked it over with you first. With Yuuri and Phichit. When you moved to Berlin with me, and I couldn’t see how hard it was for you.”

            “But-“

            “No, Yuri, it’s not fair to get angry with me for not listening to you, and then get mad when I do.” Viktor sighed. “If I was sure, I would have told Otabek. I told him I had guesses, but he’s had enough decisions taken away already – I wasn’t going to force this on him. And I’m sorry. I tried to tell you what I could, that I thought he was being pessimistic, but… I’d already overstepped. I decided that if I was right, it wasn’t urgent, and if I was wrong, putting either of you through that would have been awful.”

            He could see Yuri’s anger start to crumple.

            “How did you figure it out?” Yuri demanded, pacing back and forth on the other side of the coffee table. “You said you didn’t know anything about werewolves.”

            “When Otabek first explained his thoughts, it seemed like a possibility, but his evidence for it… it didn’t add up,” answered Viktor. “Everything had a simpler explanation, and I realized that his reasoning was inconsistent. He talked about wolf life spans, and then about energy, or whatever that was. And then there’s the math.”

            “The math,” echoed Yuri, lifting an eyebrow. “The _math_.”

            “There are quite a few werewolves, even if they keep to themselves, but very few bites.”

            Yuri’s face remained blank, and Viktor decided that he _had_ to talk to Yakov about the tutors his juniors were assigned.

            “Population biology,” he elaborated. “If werewolves lived for, say, ten years, each one would have to bite and turn at least one person successfully to keep the population steady. So, a thousand werewolves would be a thousand bites per decade. I’ve heard of four, including Otabek. It was possible that they were _really_ good at keeping that under wraps, but it seemed like something we’d find out about.”

            “That’s why you mentioned the bite thing to Otabek,” Yuri blurted. “We were supposed to figure it from _that?_ ”

            “I thought Otabek might realize when he was ready,” replied Viktor. “Besides, I overstepped when I asked about it – it didn’t seem right not to tell him. And I wasn’t quite sure what it meant. Either werewolves lived a very long time, or bites weren’t the only way to create a werewolf, or I was missing something.”

            “You guessed about the healing, too.”

            “Accelerated healing isn’t unheard of, but it doesn’t always mean they live for very long.” Viktor moved from his armchair to the couch, and gestured for Yuri to sit next to him. After a moment, Yuri obliged. “I’m so glad, Yurochka. For Otabek, for you… for me too.”

            “Kat- Yuuri,” murmured Yuri, tracing circles on the carpet with one toe. “Right?”

            “It’s another option for him. For us,” Viktor said slowly. “Probably safer. It’s his choice. If we stay together, and he decides he doesn’t want… I’d understand. It wouldn’t be easy.”

            They sat in silence together, each understanding, each wishing they didn’t.

            “Yuri, this is the hardest answer Otabek could have found,” murmured Viktor, eventually. “I’m not sure it’s the one he wanted. It’s going to be hard for him.” Yuri grimaced, perplexed, and Viktor put a hand on his shoulder. “ _котенок,_ what do you think scares Otabek the most?”

            “Hurting people,” Yuri replied instantly, then hesitated. The shadow of a frown crossed his face, and he whispered, “Losing them.”

            “I think so too,” agreed Viktor. “And living for as long as we might, it’s inevitable. He’s realized that already, and… I expect that loss isn’t something Otabek knows how to deal with.”

            “Of course he does,” Yuri retorted. “If anyone fucking knows, it’s him.”

            “No, Yuri,” Viktor countered. “It’s you.”

* * *

            “Me,” Yuri said blankly. He must have misheard, misinterpreted – but no, Viktor had that small smile he wore in the rare moments of complete openness, and was waiting quietly for Yuri to process. “I’m not-“

            “I know your grandmother passed when you were young,” Viktor said gently. “You’ve always acknowledged that your grandfather won’t live forever. You had to leave skating and everything else behind… loss is a natural part of life for you, and I’ve watched you accept the pain and work through it and move on. What you said to me about continuing your relationship with Otabek, even if you’d only have a short time together – I don’t know if I would have been able to make this thing with Yuuri work without that.”

            “I don’t- I’m not- I still can’t watch skating,” protested Yuri, realizing as he said it that it wasn’t true. He could. It would hurt, but he’d be able to, just like he’d been able to accept the empty spot in his grandfather’s house. He continued, instead, “I tried to throw Otabek out, I’m-“

            “I’m not saying it’s easy for you, that you’ve got it all figured out. Just that you can be more mature about it than the rest of us, sometimes.” Viktor sighed. “If it were reversed, Otabek couldn’t have done what you did.”

            For a moment, Yuri wondered if Otabek would be able to do it now, to stay with someone who could be destroyed by the touch of sunlight. If he should. But _no,_ he thought, forcing that fear away. They were past that, and… Yuri would be okay anyway, eventually.

            “He’s… it sounds like the first person he really lost was you, and then he never had the support or security to move on in a healthy way. For Otabek, it’s traumatic and terrifying, and he doesn’t know how to get through it without losing himself in the process.”

            With everyone else, Otabek had walked away before they could tell him not to come back, holding on to what he saw as his last chance until it crumbled to dust in his hands. So he wouldn’t hurt them, he’d said, he’d _believed,_ but so they couldn’t hurt him, either.

            “Shit,” Yuri said. He looked away, at the smudges on the living room wall and the scuffs on the coffee table, then turned back. Viktor knew what it was to fear loss, too, and he’d faced it anyway. “Thank you. I- thanks.”

            “I want to help him too,” replied Viktor, still smiling gently.

            “No, I mean- fuck,” Yuri growled. He could move on, change as his life changed. He used to fear retirement more than anything else, sure that removing his skates that last time would destroy him as surely as fire – a charred relic, pathetic, useless. It might have, then. It wouldn’t now. “Just. Everything. Getting me through it. I- I want you to know I wouldn’t go back if I could magically fix it all. I… this.”

_I would stay even if I could go back._

            Yuri pretended not to see the wet sheen in Viktor’s blue eyes, and squirmed away from his hug, but carefully, not enough to break away.

            It was going to be hard for all of them, watching others grow up and grow old. They’d have each other, until they didn’t – it was impossible to forget that _indefinite_ didn’t mean _forever._ Otabek, whose mind and body were ever-alert and on edge, waiting for the danger that had haunted him for so long, must have already realized that instead of meeting them peacefully when their bodies faded and the sand in their timers trickled out, Death’s pale horse would run them down.

            And yet, Yuri wouldn’t give this up.

* * *

            Pick one emotion, and take it from zero to a hundred. Yuri’s comment hadn’t been inaccurate, decided Otabek, but he’d neglected to mention the reverse – that they also went from a hundred to zero in a split second, leaving a numb emptiness that gave way to a new hurricane.

            He walked out of Dr. Schäfer’s office without paying attention to his feet. They’d get him home, and do a better job of it if he didn’t try to interfere. Otabek’s mind was too loud, too chaotic, for her to slow him down and comb his thoughts into some semblance of order.

            He was okay. He was going to be okay. Relief could be as heavy a weight as fear, dragging at his limbs like lead, syrup obscuring the world and thickening the air in his lungs.

 _Meet me at the grocery store?_ he texted Yuri, determined to continue with life, remembering the half-empty fridge, but balking at the thought of facing down the bright aisles.

 _Half an hour,_ agreed Yuri. _You ok?_

            Of course he was okay, Otabek told himself. He was relieved, he was happy, what else could he be?

            He thought about Zhibek, who would look older than him in a few more years, about Aisulu and her kids. He’d have to tell them. There was no getting around it now, no way they wouldn’t notice.

            If it went well, he’d get to see Timur and Roza grow up. When he met them over skype, he could already see that Roza was a carbon copy of Aisulu, and Timur had some of the same quiet goofiness as Otabek’s father. The world didn’t know what was going to hit it when they became adults.

            He’d see them grow old, too.

            Otabek’s breath stuttered and caught in his chest.

 _Getting döner kebab,_ he told Yuri.

            Minami and Ingrid had promised to teach him what he should have learned years ago, repeated the offer of another home, of a pack – a family. Yuri and Minami, he suspected, would either be unlikely friends or unable to stand each other.

 _There is no wolf,_ Minami had told him, tipping his head in confusion. It was just him, Otabek and the new bundle of instincts that he’d separated and pushed aside, a new, distinct part of himself to fear and hate. _You’re the wolf._

            The folded sheets of paper containing his new prescription information rustled in the pocket of Otabek’s jeans as he waited outside the grocery for Yuri to appear. Minami, with his year of medical school, and an older (well, probably older) woman named Güliz had nodded in surprised approval of Dr. Schäfer’s dosage process and approximations before suggesting a few small changes.

            Yuri was early. He jumped out of Viktor’s car instead of a city bus, clutching a backpack and a pair of reusable grocery bags. His eyes were shining with happiness, and the knot in Otabek’s chest relaxed the tiniest bit.

            “What do you need to get?” Yuri asked, slipping his free hand into Otabek’s.

            “Um. Usual stuff,” replied Otabek, squeezing his fingers lightly. “Milk?”

            He took items off the shelves mostly at random, only checking to make sure they were free of garlic. At the register, Yuri peered into the basket and ran off to grab a carton of milk he’d forgotten.

            “We could go see a movie,” Otabek suggested when they stood on the sidewalk outside. If he couldn’t feel normal, he could try to be normal and wait for his mind to catch up. This was the best possible scenario, what people dreamed of. Yuri was happy. Viktor was happy, though it hadn’t taken him by surprise. “Or go skating. Whatever you want.”

            “Groceries, Beka,” Yuri reminded him, hefting a bag.

            “After we drop them off,” amended Otabek.

            “Do you want to?”

            “Sure.”

            Yuri nudged Otabek with his elbow.

            Otabek wanted to hide under a pile of blankets and shrink his world until it was small enough for him to deal with.

            Yuri poked him again.

            He told Yuri that.

            “Ok,” Yuri replied. “We’re doing that.”

            “I’m sorry,” said Otabek as they waited for the bus (Viktor was staying in the city for another few hours). “I’m- I know I’m supposed to be-“

            “Beka, you don't have to be happy,” Yuri said quietly. “It’s a lot. I wasn’t happy at first. I was just… scared.”

            They boarded the bus. Otabek leaned his head against Yuri’s shoulders, closing his eyes as gentle fingers combed through his hair.

            Later, in the darkness of the blanket fort Yuri constructed in the living room, Otabek wrapped his arms around Yuri and talked as the tangle of his thoughts began to unravel.

            “I think I- I felt like I’d already died,” he murmured. “I was just waiting for it to catch up to me, and I didn’t… after Sweden, it felt like the only options were kill or be killed, but if I wasn’t going to live long anyway, it was- it would be easier.”

            “Your coping mechanisms might be worse than mine,” Yuri whispered back. “But I get it, I guess. At first I- I wished sometimes Viktor hadn’t turned me. I didn’t think I could do it, and I didn’t want to have to try and fail.”

            “I’m- Yura, I think I’ll be happy about it,” he said. “I _am,_ but mostly I’m… terrified. I don’t know how to not be. I never wanted to live forever.”

            “We don’t get forever,” Yuri reminded him softly. “And it would fucking suck if we did.”

            “Yeah. That scares me too.” He sighed into Yuri’s hair. “How- how do you deal with that part?”

            “I kind of don’t,” Yuri admitted. “If I have to think about it, I guess I tell myself that I’ve done it before and it wasn’t too bad. After was the hard part.”

            Otabek snorted.

            “You’ve got practice, you mean.”

            "Shut your face."

            They were quiet for a minute.

            “Fuck, Yura,” he said with a groan. “Global warming. _Fuck._ ”

            Yuri laughed and twisted around to kiss him.

 

 _I’ll get there,_ Otabek decided. _We’ll be okay._

            They had time.

* * *

**_One Year Later_ **

 

            “I’m sorry I can’t come with you,” said Yuri, handing Otabek his small suitcase. “Call me when your plane lands?”

            “Of course,” Otabek replied. “And I’ll have Güliz with me. She’s done this before. She told her family.”

            “You said Zhibek’s flying in to help?”

            “Tomorrow,” confirmed Otabek.

            Zhibek had taken the werewolf news with surprising calm, but she was less thrilled to hear about Yuri.

_“What he fucking did to you- Beka, I’m gonna stake him myself if-“_

_“She and Mila would get along,”_ Yuri commented later. _“Let’s never, ever introduce them.”_

            So, overall, that went well.

            “Good luck, Beshka. I’ll see you in a week,” said Yuri, then rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe you scheduled this so I have to deal with the old men by myself.”

            “For _two days,_ Yura,” replied Otabek with a snort. “I think you’ll survive. Yuuri’s visited before.”

            “He hasn’t moved in before,” Yuri whined.

            “At least the walls are soundproofed.”

            “Beka, ugh!”

            “I should go,” Otabek said reluctantly. “I- I’ll call you, yeah.”

            “Any time,” Yuri agreed softly. “I… you’ll be okay?”

            “I’ll be okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, shit.  
> To everyone reading this, thank you so much for sticking with me through 41 chapters (!), 154,000 words (!!), and - some of you - close to seven and a half months, and an extra thank you to everyone who has left comments, kudos, and talked to me about the story on tumblr.  
> I wanted to write a long, heartfelt message about the experience of writing and finishing the story, because wow, that was more than I ever expected, but I'm a bit overemotional and numb about the whole thing so...
> 
> Smell ya later, kids.  
> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
> 

> 
> This author replies to comments.
> 
> Note: If you don’t want a reply, for any reason (sometimes I feel shy when I'm reading and not up to starting a conversation, for example), feel free to sign your comment with whisper and I will appreciate it but not respond!


	42. The Butterfly Effect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You could not remove a single grain of sand from its place without thereby ... changing something throughout all parts of the immeasurable whole." - Johann Gottlieb Fichte

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did say later, right? Well, now it's later. Happy one year anniversary of finishing this fucker, so I think it's a good time to... un-finish it? 
> 
> Okay, not really. Not _exactly_. This isn't a sequel, prequel, companion, or other sort of continuation. Instead, it's an AU. Of my AU. And technically, this is a teaser. Look, this is just the kind of person I am. I'm sorry. (I'm not.)
> 
> So, because that explained absolutely nothing, here's what it is: I changed one tiny detail of an early event in the main story, and then I let it spiral out from there to become its own thing. This is an excerpt from that, which will be posted **this Sunday, September 2** , as a new work. If you're interested, please make sure to subscribe to the _series_ so you get the notification. 
> 
> Last note: I think it will make sense on its own if you have any memory of the main story, BUT, if you want to refresh it, you can read [chapter ten](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9342170/chapters/21727220) and that'll give you everything you need in terms of what I'm using as a jumping-off point. If you want to get really intense, you could also go back to [chapter six](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9342170/chapters/21425624#workskin), AKA the point I realized that hey, I love angst. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy! And remember that I can't see if anyone subscribes to a series like I can with an individual work, so I'd love a comment to let me know you're sticking around because, uh, I kinda need to finish writing like twenty thousand words this week and I'm gonna die a little bit.

        "Yura, I'm okay." Otabek felt a little better for the repetition. He was okay. He'd be okay. He'd gone sleepwalking, lost his phone, and... it didn't matter, as long as it didn't happen again. "If I faint, you'll just have to carry me back."

        "Drag you by an ankle, more like," Yuri snorted. "If you're lucky. Where's your coat?"

        "It's not that cold out."

        Yuri tipped his head. "It's about freezing. You'll be begging for my jacket in fifteen seconds and you know it."

        It didn't feel cold. It must be the fever, Otabek decided, as they tracked the blinking dot on Yuri's map.

        "Got it!" Otabek called, crawling out from behind the hedge. Maybe someone had picked his pocket and then tossed the phone when they realized it was old and next to worthless.

        Steel shone by his palm. Otabek picked up a keychain - _his_ keychain, with his old penlight - and looked around again. Dim memories of the moonlit park flickered. What else might have been in his pockets? His wallet had been safe on his bedside table, his motorcycle keys on their hook by the door. Nothing of value was missing. Nothing at all.

        Except a single running shoe, which lay half-hidden under the hedge.

        Otabek tried to swallow the rush of confused panic. A bare foot, Krestovsky Island, the kilometers between them, the missing night that he kept trying to shrink to mere hours, all closing around him like shadows with dark, grasping claws, scraping and scratching and shredding every answer he thought he'd wrestled into logical order. His fist closed around the keys, tightening until a dull throb of pain dragged his attention back to the present. Drops of blood stood out on his skin where the key's teeth dug into his palm.

        He wiped it off on his jeans and examined the unmarked skin.

        "Beka, did you get lost or something?" Yuri said, peering around the bush. "Oh, good, it's not even broken."

        Otabek nodded, his throat too tight for breath or words.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of **[the LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject),** whose goal is to improve communication between readers and authors.  
>  This author invites:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
> 

> 
> This author replies to comments.


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